


Discovering Mr Baggins

by Eareniel



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: BOFA AU, Behind-the-scenes fic, Character Study, Company!POVs, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-22
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-02 09:28:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 94,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1055167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eareniel/pseuds/Eareniel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A.K.A. The Quest for Erebor:</p><p>The story of a Hobbit, told through the eyes of the dwarves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Balin

**Author's Note:**

> As you may have guessed from the summary, this story is heavily based on the book (with some elements from the first movie mixed in). Before you hit the back button, because you are sick and tired of reading the Troll Scene for the hundreth time, let me assure you that this is not a verbatim retelling of the book. 
> 
> When I was re-reading The Hobbit in spring, I noticed that Mr Tolkien tends to skip over a lot of stuff. He takes great care describing the exciting action and the countryside, but not much attention is paid to the relationships among the companions. There are long stretches of time that get swept away with just a few sentences. The beginning is basically: “They rode for a month, nobody spoke to Bilbo much.” and “They spent two weeks in Rivendell. It was nice.” So it got me wondering: what happens in the times that he doesn’t describe?
> 
> This is a “behind the scenes” fic. I’m not really rewriting the book, just filling in the blanks that Mr Tolkien left and adding a little slashy embellishment of my own. Most of the story stays true to the original, but I took the liberty to change a few things to suit my needs. 
> 
> Disclaimer: None of this belongs to me. I’m just borrowing the characters to play around with them.
> 
> ETA: This story now has Fanart! The wonderful Nazgullow over at DA has drawn lovely illustrations for each chapter of this story. I will post a link to each corresponding picture in the chapters, but you can find the whole gallery [here](http://nazgullow.deviantart.com/gallery/47540262)  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter now has Fanart! You can see it [here](http://nazgullow.deviantart.com/art/Discovering-Mr-Baggins-Balin-425341352).

Everything was finally prepared for the journey. 

Balin walked through the corridors of the palace, his mind going over the mental checklist of things they needed to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything. Satisfied that they had everything, he approached the door to Thorin’s study to tell the king as much. Before he could knock, however, the sound of raised voices drew his attention and he paused with his hand raised in the air, rethinking his previous plan. Instead of knocking, he lowered his hand and leaned a little closer to the door to find out what was going on.

“I will not allow this!” The voice of Thorin’s sister was sharp as a knife, the agitation in her voice audible even through the solid oak wood of the door. 

“I have already made my decision,” Thorin said in a tone that bore no argument. While this tactic might frighten lesser dwarves into compliance, it had never worked on Dís and her response came a second later, equally fierce.

“It’s madness! This whole quest is a folly. Why go now, after all these years, when our kingdom here is finally peaceful and prosperous?”

“Erebor is our birthright. I wish to claim it back.”

 _Ah_ , thought Balin, they were discussing Thorin’s quest again. Thorin had been obsessed with the thought of reclaiming Erebor ever since he had returned from his trip to the northern Misty Mountains in early February. Dís had been supportive of him at first, helping him with planning, but once she had learnt that he planned to take with him both Fíli and Kíli, she had started trying to talk him out of it. 

She had been trying to change Thorin’s mind for weeks now, pointing out the weak spots in his plan (such as the fact that they had no idea how to kill the dragon), but so far her attempts had been unsuccessful. The only thing greater than Thorin’s stubbornness was his pride and her disapproval only made him more determined to succeed in his endeavour. Even now, at the eve of their departure, she was still trying to dissuade him, but Thorin’s mind was already set in stone and nothing she could say would move him. 

“Must you take both my sons with you?” A hint of pleading entered her voice and Balin couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for her. The young princes had been excited about the adventure for weeks now, prancing around the palace, completely oblivious to the worry their participation in the quest was causing to their mother. “Why are you willing to risk both your heirs on this fool’s errand?”

“Fíli and Kíli both want to go with me,” was Thorin’s answer. 

“Of course they want to go with you,” she said, exasperated. “They both adore you. They would follow you into the very fires of Mordor, if you asked them. That does not mean you have to take them both with you.”

“Both of them are of age,” Thorin pointed out.

“Barely,” Dís said. “They are far too young for something like this.”

“I was younger than they are when I fought Azog at the gates of Khazad-dûm.”

“You might have been, but that still doesn’t make this right. The road is dangerous and there is no guarantee they will come back. Do you want them to end up like Frérin? Slain before they celebrate their first hundred years?” Her voice was rising, the urgency in it now unmistakeable. “I have already lost my grandfather, my father, a brother and my husband. Do you want me to lose my sons, too?”

Balin closed his eyes. Dís must have been running out of arguments to be willing to bring up Frérin. Their long-lost brother had always been a sore point for the siblings – even more so for Thorin, who had been the one to watch him die before the gates of Khazad- dûm. 

Thorin’s response was too low to hear, but the voice of his sister was clear enough.

“If either of them dies, I will never forgive you.”

Balin barely had time to step away from the door before it flew open and Dís stormed out. Before the door slammed shut behind her, Balin got a glimpse of Thorin standing by the window, his back-ramrod straight with tension. When she spotted Balin, Dís stopped mid-stride, faltering. She looked away and took a few seconds to visibly compose herself and rein in her temper before she turned to him. Her attempt was mostly successful, because when she spoke, her tone was almost civil.

“I’m sorry you had to witness that,” she told Balin.

“It is me who should apologise for spying on you,” Balin said. “I happened to pass by and your raised voices drew my attention. It was not my intention to eavesdrop.” 

She waved away his apology with a careless hand. 

“You’ve been forced to listen to our arguments for more than a hundred and fifty years now, Balin. This one is no different.”

Balin glanced at the door. “I see that Thorin remains as stubborn as ever about the quest.”

Dís sighed.

“I have tried to make him see reason, but he is blinded by visions of gold and glory and refuses to listen.” She turned pleading eyes on him. “Is there any chance you could convince him to turn back?” 

“No, I am afraid not,” Balin replied. “I have talked to him several times, but his mind is set. He is determined to reclaim Erebor and nothing I or anyone else says can sway him. 

Dís gave him a weary look.

“I suppose that I can’t talk _you_ out of joining them, either.”

Balin shook his head with a rueful smile.

“Someone sensible should go with them, to help keep those crazy dwarves in line. I am afraid Thorin won’t be of much use in that department and my brother has always been quick to support Thorin in endeavours like this, so I won’t get much help from him, either.”

Dís stepped closer, lowering her voice.

“Will you look after Fíli and Kíli for me?”

Balin laid a hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently once before letting go.

“To the best of my ability. They can be a handful even on their good days.”

That drew a small smile from her.

“Yes, they are a pair of rascals. I have no idea who they get it from.”

“Don’t you?” Balin raised an eyebrow. By mutual silent agreement they started walking down the hall, leaving Thorin to his brooding. “I distinctly remember a young dwarven princess who liked to spend her days running away from her caretakers to join her brothers at the archery range. She refused to wear dresses and insisted on carrying a sword and always threw a tantrum when her brothers got to ride out on a patrol while she was forced to stay in the hall and study poetry.”

She snorted.

“I have always hated poetry. Besides, my dear brothers always used the patrols as an opportunity to catch wild mice and spiders and smuggle them into my room, just to hear me scream when those critters jumped at me in the dark.”

“Need I remind you of the time you hid a frog in Thorin’s bed?” Balin asked.

“That was only once!” Dís informed him, her smile growing wider at the memory. “But the month of lessons on manners had been completely worth it to hear Thorin scream like a little girl.”

Balin gave her a fond smile.

“Have you ever told Fíli and Kíli about that?”

“No, I don’t think I have,” she said. “I didn’t want to give them any more inspiration for their mischief. Mahal knows they get into enough trouble as it is.”

“You should go to them,” Balin said softly. “They may be adults now, but they are still young enough for a good story. What do you know, maybe they will use it as an inspiration for their journey.”

“Put a frog in Thorin’s bedroll?” She chuckled and Balin was happy to see that most of her anger and bad mood had dissipated. “They are just daring enough to pull that off. My, Thorin has no idea what he signed up for when he agreed to take them with him. Maybe they will irritate him enough that he will send them back.”

“I would not be surprised if he did,” Balin agreed with a chuckle of his own. “I will look after your boys,” he promised her when they reached the door to her quarters. Seeing that the corridor was empty, she drew him close for a brief hug. When she pulled back, her smile was fond.

“You have always been a good friend to us, Balin. Thank you for that.”

He returned the smile.

“It was never a hardship.”

“Have a safe journey,” she wished him before she walked into her room, the door falling shut behind her.

“Let us hope we will,” Balin muttered, going back to his room to finish packing.

*****

_I am getting too old for all this adventuring_ , Balin thought as he watched the dwarves riding around him, their countenance full of excitement and anticipation brought on by their quest.

Even though the sun shone pleasantly during the day and the countryside around them was lush with the oncoming spring, the nights were still cold and Balin could feel the chill from the ground seeping into his bones, leaving his limbs stiff and heavy in the morning. All the sleeping on the ground wasn’t doing his back any favours, either, and more than once he caught himself watching the youngsters, a little envious of their carefree manner. 

He had been like them, once, way back before the dragon had driven his kin out of the mountain and the endless wandering had worn them down to the bone, leaving only weariness behind. They had eventually found a new home in the Blue Mountains, but it wasn’t quite the same. Balin didn’t miss as much those grand halls and gold-plated furniture as he missed the sense of belonging. 

He missed home.

Still, his sentimentality didn’t prevent him from seeing things rationally. Thorin’s Halls in the Blue Mountains might not be as grand and glamorous as those of Erebor had been, but they were comfortable and their people prospered well enough. All in all, he would have been content to spend the rest of his life there. Why they needed to trek for hundreds of miles only to get eaten by the dragon was beyond Balin’s understanding. Why now, after all these years?

Balin didn’t know for sure, but he strongly suspected that it had been the wizard who had put things in motion – a few choice words during a chance meeting in Bree had been all that was needed to renew Thorin’s lifelong desire to getting his ancestral home back. Many times since then, Balin had wondered just how random their meeting had really been. 

He had heard of Gandalf the Grey before – a wandering wizard with a talent for fireworks and meddling in other people’s affairs. Gandalf had been very eager to support Thorin’s quest and Balin couldn’t help but wonder why that was. Wizards generally didn’t seem to be interested in gold, or any sort of wealth, really. What did he gain by helping them restore the ancient dwarven kingdom? Did he want to get rid of the dragon? If so, why didn’t he just kill the worm himself? Surely he didn’t expect that thirteen dwarfs would be able to succeed where an army had not?

For only thirteen they were so far. From all the inhabitants of Blue Mountains, only twelve dwarves had answered Thorin’s call. Together they formed a ragtag band of craftsmen, tradesmen and warriors. The latter ones were far too few in Balin’s opinion and were either too old to hold a blade or far too young. Balin could only hope that Thorin would be able to rally some support at the meeting with other dwarven representatives, otherwise their quest was sure to end in a complete disaster. 

There was no way they could take the mountain and get rid of the dragon with only thirteen people and Thorin had to know it, yet he insisted on going on the quest. Thorin was stubborn by nature but he was rarely careless. In all the years Balin had known him, Thorin had never pulled a foolish stunt like this. Thrór had been the one to attempt to reclaim Moria, but Thorin had always been more realistic about his chances, not willing to risk the fate of his people to chase idle dreams.

 _What had changed?_ Balin wondered. What had made Thorin blind to danger and reckless to the point of foolishness? Was it the wizard’s doing? It had to be. Balin couldn’t guess how much of this stubbornness was Thorin’s own and how much had been caused by the wizard’s words, but it worried him a little. He could understand the desire to fulfil a lifelong dream, but taking one’s own kin and heirs on a quest that had very little chance of success was just plain irresponsible. 

Fíli and Kíli had been eager to go from the first moment they had heard about the quest, but Balin couldn’t blame them for that. They were still young and idealistic, having grown up sheltered in their comfortable home in the Blue Mountains. To them the dragon seemed like a faraway dream – an exotic tale told to little dwarflings as a bedside story by their mothers. Young Ori, too, had been excited about the prospect of having an adventure, viewing the whole enterprise as a fun trip to the wilderness.

While the other members of the company had been a bit more realistic about the risks awaiting them, Balin still doubted that they fully realized what an enormous obstacle the dragon presented. There were very few among them who had actually lived through the dragon’s rampage – him, Thorin, Óin and Dori. The others had been either too young to fully comprehend what was happening or they hadn’t been born yet, so Balin didn’t blame them for not taking the dragon threat seriously, either.

Since Thorin had to stay behind in the Blue Mountains to attend the Council and Dwalin had gone ahead to scout the road, Balin had been appointed to lead the Company in Thorin’s absence. To say he was less than enthusiastic about his new responsibility would be an understatement.

It had been years since he had last babysat Fíli and Kíli and to his chagrin he now found that getting older had done nothing to lessen their propensity for getting into trouble. After the third time he had to calm down a near hysterical Ori, because a snake had mysteriously found its way into his bedroll, Balin had half a mind to turn his pony around and tell Thorin in no uncertain terms just what he thought about this whole foolhardy business.

Thank Mahal they were almost at their destination in the Shire, and Dwalin would be joining them soon. His younger brother had always been good at keeping the Durin boys in line. 

He was drawn from by his thoughts by Kíli’s excited exclamation. The young dwarf had spotted the shop sign of the pub where they planned to spend the night and was now trying to beat his brother in a race towards the building. Balin just shook his head at their antics and followed with his pony at a much slower pace. 

They were still tending to their ponies when a tall figure of an old man emerged from the house, looking decidedly out of place in a land where everything was hobbit-sized. He spread his arms in welcome when he saw them, his smile hidden in his grey beard.

“Welcome, my dear dwarves,” the wizard said. “You are right on time. Put away your ponies and your baggage, and have a pint. The beer in this pub is particularly good. There’s no need to rent any rooms here, however, because I have managed to find you dinner and accommodation at a house of an old friend of mine.”

The dwarves quickly took care of their ponies and filed inside, ignoring the mistrustful glances the locals threw their way. The Shirefolk always had a tendency to look at the travellers with displeasure, even though there was always plenty of folk passing through these lands, and most of those travellers were merchants willing to spend a coin for a good pint of ale. Balin would be baffled by it, if he didn’t remember Thrór’s dislike of trading with the elves, despite the enormous profit it had brought him. Some things, Balin thought, were universal. Dislike of strangers being one of them.

It was sometime after sunset when Gandalf bade them to rise and ushered them outside.

“We should go now, while there is still some light left. It has been years since I last walked through these lands and I would hate to get lost in the dark. I left a note for Thorin with the barkeeper, so he should be able to find us easily when he arrives. Now come with me, it is not very far.”

They let the wizard lead them over fields and through several settlements, the hedges around the narrow path often forcing them to walk in a single file. The dusk set in as they walked and lights begun to appear in the small round windows of the hobbit-holes, the hobbits inside sitting down for dinner. They passed through a small copse of trees and as they turned a corner, they saw a hill rising up from the countryside before them. Gandalf pointed towards a green door at the top of the hill, looking very pleased with himself.

“There lives our host. We should probably split into pairs before we come in, so that we do not overwhelm him. I am afraid that he was not expecting quite so many visitors tonight.”

Nori’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. 

“Does this friend even know we’re coming?” 

Gandalf coughed a little.

“He is a very hospitable fellow. He likes having visitors.” 

“So he has no idea.” Nori breathed. “This should be interesting.”

“If he throws us all out, you’re buying us dinner.” Glóin warned Gandalf. 

“I am sure it will all go well,” Gandalf tried to placate them. “Bilbo is too proud of his manners to refuse you hospitality. His mother Belladonna wouldn’t have hesitated to slam the door in your face, but Bilbo is too soft spoken for that.”

“Well, that’s reassuring,” said Bofur. “Who is he, anyway? You haven’t told us anything about him.”

“Bilbo’s grandfather was the Old Took, a most remarkable hobbit who ruled over most of the Shire for nearly a hundred years. Bilbo himself is a traveller and a scholar. He is also a great cook and very fond of food, which is part of the reason why we are going to visit him tonight. His pantry holds enough food to feed half the Shire.” 

That piqued their interest. They had been on the road for more than a week now and the idea of a feast was very tempting. Gandalf continued. “I have chosen Mr Baggins as the fourteenth member of our company, but he is proving to be rather reluctant to join our quest. I am hoping that you lot can help me convince him.”

“And you hope to accomplish that by having thirteen dwarves barge inside his hobbit hole and eat him out of his house and home?” Balin raised a single sceptical eyebrow.

Gandalf started to look a bit uncomfortable with all the questions. 

“Bilbo will come around, you’ll see. Now look! I think that’s Dwalin over there.”

They all looked in the direction he was pointing and indeed, they could see Dwalin’s unmistakeable silhouette striding up the hill. They watched in suspense as Dwalin knocked on the door. From the distance, it was impossible to see the hobbit inside, but after a moment of negotiation, Dwalin walked inside and the door closed behind him. Gandalf’s smile turned smug.

“What did I tell you? Now Balin, you should go next, before your brother frightens poor Master Baggins to death. It has been a few years since Bilbo last dealt with dwarves and he might feel a little overwhelmed. We will be right behind you.”

Balin started to climb the hill, no longer wondering about Thorin’s sudden decision to go on a quest. The wizard was awfully persuasive. Thorin had never stood a chance. 

Neither did any of them, Balin thought as the green door came closer. They could only hope that the wizard knew what he was doing.

*****

“Funny little fellow bobbing on the mat” – Glóin’s description of Bilbo Baggins may not have been the most flattering one, but it was, in Balin’s opinion, fairly accurate. Balin’s first impulse (after he had eaten and drunk enough to start paying attention to their host) had been to feel sorry for the poor creature, since it was obvious that Mr Baggins really had no idea why his kitchen was being occupied by a party of dwarves.

Still, Balin’s sympathy didn’t prevent him from sitting back and watching in amusement as the hobbit’s irritation grew with each new dwarf until he looked like an angry teakettle, sputtering and puffing in the hallway while the dwarfs happily raided his pantry, paying him no mind. 

Balin privately thought it was a miracle that Bilbo hadn’t thrown Thorin out as soon as he’d seen him, so angry he had been at that point. Thorin had only been saved by his overly imperious manner and the hobbit’s shock at the king’s rudeness. If it had been Ori at the door, Balin thought, he would have ended up spending the night in the hobbit’s front garden. 

It had been amusing to see the hobbit’s well-bred manners go to war with his temper. Bilbo Baggins obviously fancied himself to be a true hobbit gentleman, with old money and great respectability, but from the way he hadn’t hesitated to chew out the wizard, it was clear that under all that polished exterior lurked a temper to rival Thorin’s own. 

Despite his feigned disinterest in their quest, the halfling had nearly fallen over his own feet in his eagerness to take a peek at the map of Erebor and Balin had no doubt that come morning his curious nature would win over his overinflated sense of propriety and prompt him to join their quest.

Thorin had doubted him, declaring the whole business in the Shire a waste of time, so when the hobbit finally showed up the next morning, Balin felt no small amount of satisfaction when Thorin reached for his coin purse, handing it to Balin with a glare. 

Thorin’s mood didn’t improve much over the next few days. Balin didn’t know if it was the failed meeting at Ered Luin or the dragon that weighted on his mind, but the dark haired dwarf kept frowning as he rode in the front by himself. Gandalf’s attempts at conversation only got him glares so the wizard opted to ride with the hobbit instead, chattering about weather and Bilbo’s numerous relatives. 

Mr Baggins himself turned out to be a pleasant fellow, if a little timid. Once his irritation with the dwarves had passed, he turned back to the polite gentlehobbit he was and looked rather intimidated by the company. The dwarves paid very little attention to him. After the initial excitement of the hobbit’s arrival had worn off, most of the dwarves started ignoring his presence, their conversations turning towards mining and gold. Balin on the other hand was more than happy to draw the halfling into a chat, curious about their new companion. 

Sometimes it seemed to Balin that Thorin was bothered by the hobbit’s presence, looking slightly uncomfortable whenever the halfling ventured near, but Balin chalked it up to his irritation with the wizard’s meddling and soon stopped paying attention to it. The hobbit kept his distance from the king, preferring to ride near the back of the group. The discovery of missing handkerchiefs and the realisation that he was expected to ride a pony all the way to Erebor soon put Bilbo in a grumpy mood and for the next few days he rode by himself, frowning and probably making a mental list of all the things he had forgotten at home.

*****

At the eve of the third day of their journey from Bag-End they finally spotted the village of Bree, bathed in the reddish-golden light of the setting sun. They all heeled their ponies, the thought of warm bed and home cooked food spurring them on. Thorin led them towards the pub, handing the reins of his pony into the hands of the waiting stable hand.

“There is no reason why we shouldn’t enjoy the comforts of having a pint of beer and nice lodgings for the night,” Thorin said. “It will be a long time before we can sleep with a roof over our heads. There is little hospitality to be found in the wilderness.”

The dwarves dismounted and quickly filed into the pub, led by the aroma of roasting meat. Mr Baggins looked at them uncertainly for a moment before he separated from their group, making a beeline for the party of halflings sitting in the corner, who welcomed him with enthusiasm. Balin found himself pulled to the side by Thorin, whose keen eyes were watching the halfling with suspicion. 

“Balin, keep an eye on him. Make sure he doesn’t betray our quest.” Thorin didn’t wait for a response – he just clapped him on the shoulder and walked away to discipline his unruly group, which had taken up an entire table and was making a great deal of racket. 

With a small sigh, Balin went after him, choosing a seat nearest the group of hobbits. So far, they only seemed to have exchanged the standard greetings and discussed the weather. Balin cut himself a nice slice of meat from the roast on the table and settled comfortably into his chair to listen.

“We haven’t seen you in years, Master Baggins!” one is the local hobbits exclaimed. “You used to pass through here every year, but now you haven’t visited for ages. Did you get tired of travelling?”

Balin turned his head a bit to be able to see the halfling’s expression. The Hobbit was looking into his pint of ale, his face clouded.

“Travelling was a pastime of my youth, Mr Underhill. Now I have a business to run and there’s little time for such frivolity.”

“You took the business over from your father?” the hobbit called Mr Underhill leaned forward in curiosity.

“My father passed away fifteen years ago,” Mr Baggins told him. “I haven’t left the Shire since. I didn’t want to leave my mother alone in the house.”

“And how is dear Belladonna?”

“Mother passed away as well, a few years ago,” Bilbo said softly.

That prompted a flood of expressions of sympathy from his drinking companions and a new order of beer, which brought on a lengthy discussion about various relatives, both alive and dead. Balin was just starting to doze off when a question brought him back on alert.

“What made you set out again? And with a party of dwarves at that?” 

Mr Baggins shot a quick look at his travelling companions before he averted his eyes again.

“I have some business in the east. These dwarves have kindly allowed me to go with them. The roads are dangerous these days, so it is much better to travel in a group.”

His lie didn’t sound very convincing to Balin’s ears, but the hobbits seemed to believe it, nodding in understanding.

“Are you visiting the elves again?” 

Mr Baggins inclined his head with a smile.

“Yes, I hope to stop by Rivendell, if I have the opportunity.” 

The conversation turned towards the various travellers passing through Bree and the goings-on in the Shire and Thorin’s group was completely forgotten. It seemed the halflings had little interest in the affairs of dwarves, preferring to discuss last year’s harvest and the quality of soil in the East Farthing. No further mention of Thorin’s company was made and Balin turned his full attention back towards his dinner. 

Several hours later, when the conversation lulled and most of the local patrons had left, Mr Baggins removed himself into a corner with an oil lamp and a stack of parchments and sat down to write what looked like the complete history of the Shire. 

Thorin’s company paid no attention to him. They were still eating and drinking and several dwarves had pulled their instruments from their bags and started playing a merry tune. And through all that, Mr Baggins wrote furiously, frowning at his papers. 

It was nearly midnight when he packed his things away and made his way towards Gandalf, whispering something in his ear. The wizard nodded sagely, a small amused smile playing at the corners of his lips. With a few whispered words, he pointed the halfling towards Balin.

Balin watched the hobbit approach, hesitation in his every step. 

“Master Balin, may I have a moment of your time?” 

Thorin threw him a sharp look, but Balin just shook his head and followed Bilbo into the corner, curious about his request. The Hobbit fidgeted a bit before he scooped up several parchments and offered them to Balin.

“I do not mean for this to look so suspicious, but this is a private matter for me and I did not want to discuss it in front of the whole company. Gandalf told me that you are knowledgeable about legal matters. If it is not too much trouble, would you be willing to look over the papers I have put together? I have written a will and a few other instructions and need someone to verify them.”

Balin took out his monocle and sat down to read. The further he read, the higher his eyebrows climbed, for it appeared that Master Baggins had quite a fortune to his name. He gave the halfling a smile when he finished and reached for a quill, putting his signature under the hobbit’s. 

“Is everything in order?” Mr Baggins still looked a little nervous, clutching a tankard in his hands like a shield. 

“Yes, Master Baggins, everything is in order. You are quite good at writing these documents.”

The halfling ducked his head, his cheeks heating up at the praise.

“I write a lot of business letters.”

Balin handed the parchments back.

“You still need one more signature for the will to be valid.”

“Oh, that is no problem. Gandalf can sign it. Thank you for your service, Master Balin.” With a small bow, he turned and carried his papers to the wizard.

Balin had barely reached the main table when he was accosted by Thorin, who dragged him away from the group in a gesture of impatience. 

“What did the halfling want to discuss with you?”

“He needed advice concerning some legal matters.” Since it was apparent that his cryptic answer hadn’t satisfied Thorin, Balin continued. “He wrote a will and wanted me to verify it.”

Thorin frowned.

“A will? What did it say?” 

“That is confidential. I have no right to reveal anything to you.” Before Thorin got huffy, Balin leaned in, lowering his voice. “However, I can assure you that whatever reason Master Baggins has for joining our quest, it certainly isn’t money.” 

“Then why would he come with us?” Thorin seemed puzzled.

“I have no idea, my friend, but I am looking forward to finding out.” With a friendly pat on his forearm, Balin left Thorin to brood in the corner and went to get another pint.

_To be continued..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve been working on this story since March and now, after countless edits and rewrites, I have finally decided to share it with the world. I’d like to have most of the fic posted before the second movie comes out and my head-cannon gets scrambled with a new dose of awesomeness, so the updates should be fairly frequent, two or three times a week. My work on this fic is almost finished (50K words are already written), so I should be able to keep my updates more or less regular. Each of the dwarfs gets their own chapter.
> 
> Chapter two should be posted sometime this weekend. Feedback is appreciated as always :)


	2. Bombur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin’s company was a tightly knit group of friends and various relatives and there was little room left in it for a complete outsider.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who left a comment or a kudos on the first chapter. I was a bit taken aback by the amount of response I got this early in the fic, but I'm really happy that you all like it so far. Thank you for reading!
> 
> This chapter now has Fanart! You can see it [here](http://nazgullow.deviantart.com/art/Discovering-Mr-Baggins-Bombur-425341373). Many thanks to the talented Nazgullow for the illustration!

Bombur was a simple creature of simple tastes. He liked his comforts (mainly good food, and lot of it) and had always found the quiet, ordinary type of life to be more satisfying than any amount of glory that bloody battles could bring him. He was happiest in his kitchen, puttering with his assortment of pots and pans and had always preferred a spoon to a sword. He was willing to fight when necessary and had taken the mandatory fighting lessons with everyone else, but he found no pleasure in violence and tended to avoid it whenever he could. 

Going on the quest hadn’t been his idea and he had joined the Company only grudgingly.

When he had first heard Thorin’s announcement, he hadn’t paid it much attention, because things like that simply weren’t for him. It was only after Bofur had come into his kitchen and spent the next two hours bouncing around in his ridiculous hat that he first started even contemplating the idea. He had tried telling himself that he wouldn’t let Bofur talk him into it, but deep down he knew that he would end up on the road with the rest of them, if only to avoid being left behind while the others went off to pursue gold and glory.

Bofur had gradually worn him down with his enthusiasm, always finding an argument against Bombur’s numerous objections and as the weeks passed, Bombur could feel his defences slowly crumbling. Bofur’s excitement had been almost contagious and Bombur had never been able to tell his brother no when he got like this. 

Even Bifur, who was normally quite low-key and preferred to keep to himself, had looked excited about the adventure and more than once had joined them in the evening for a quiet discussion, making plans and going over maps and lists with Bofur while Bombur sat quietly by the fire, listening to their banter and munching on pretzels. In the end he had given in, just like he’d always suspected that he would, though he still wasn’t very happy with the idea. 

As days on the road turned to weeks, more than once Bombur found himself regretting his decision to come on Thorin’s quest. Travelling all day in a saddle was uncomfortable, the nights in early May were still cold and he didn’t get to eat nowhere near as much as he would have liked.

To his relief, he soon discovered that he wasn’t suffering alone, because there was at least one other member of the company who shared his misery - Mr Baggins didn’t look much happier about their travelling conditions than he did. Despite anything the hobbit may have said about the journeys of his youth, it was clear that he had grown accustomed to comfort over the last few years and the sudden switch to a Spartan lifestyle wasn’t doing him much good.

For the first few days, the hobbit had often complained about various things – his forgotten handkerchiefs, the absence of a second breakfast, rain, Glóin’s snores – but after Dwalin had threatened to tie him up and leave him in a ditch if he didn’t keep quiet, he started keeping his objections to himself. Riding beside him at the back of the company, Bombur could still hear the hobbit occasionally grumbling when he thought no one could hear him. Bombur knew better than to openly complain where Thorin could hear him, but he often found himself privately agreeing with the halfling’s mutterings. 

They had been travelling for two weeks, the rolling countryside around Bree giving way to the forests of the western wilderness. One evening, as Bombur was skinning a deer for dinner, the halfling wandered over and sat down on the log next to him. 

“Do you need any help with the dinner, Master Bombur?” He looked a little lost, like a child left behind at the country market by its mother. 

Bombur looked down at the half-skinned deer on the ground then at the group of dwarves, who were at various stages of preparing the camp for the night. Nobody was paying any attention to them, so Bombur concluded that nobody would mind if he took a short break. Laying down his knife, he stood up and gave the hobbit a small smile. 

“I’ll be happy to get some assistance with this. You see, I was planning to make some roasted venison tonight, but I don’t have the herbs I need.” He scratched the back of his neck in a self-conscious gesture. “I’m afraid that I’ve never been very good at telling one plant apart from the other.” 

Bilbo’s face lit up.

“Oh, I can certainly help you with that. I have a nice herb garden at home, so I should be able to help you find what you need.”

Bombur returned the smile.

“That would be really nice of you. You hobbits are very fond of flowers and herbs, are you not?”

He led the way into the forest, listening to the hobbit chatter about his herb garden. As he watched Bilbo’s animated face while the hobbit explained to him the difference between rosemary and marjoram, Bombur was suddenly glad that he hadn’t turned down Bilbo’s tentative offer of friendship. It was clear that the halfling was glad for his company. 

From what Bombur had seen, Bilbo didn’t seem to get along much with the other dwarves except for Balin, and even though Gandalf occasionally spared him a moment to chat, it wasn’t enough interaction for a creature used to being constantly surrounded by various neighbours and relatives.

Bilbo Baggins was lonely and Bombur could sympathise, because apart from his brother Bofur nobody spoke much with him, either. 

People at home often came to Bombur to ask him for favours, but few of them ever showed any interest in him personally. He had long grown used to it, but it still stung a little every time it happened. The companions had been treating him decently enough so far, but he was well aware that some of them didn’t have a very high opinion of him.

However, unlike Bilbo, Bombur was still a dwarf and a full member of the company and was treated as such – they included him in their conversations and jokes and even though some of them laughed as often at him as with him, they never ignored him. Bilbo, on the other hand, was at best tolerated, at worst considered an additional piece of luggage they had to carry with them. Bombur didn’t envy him his position in the slightest. 

Thorin’s company was a tightly knit group of friends and various relatives and there was little room left in it for a complete outsider. Bilbo seemed to realise that and most of the time he kept to himself, staring off into space or scribbling in the little notebook he had brought with him.

Since Bombur found that he enjoyed Bilbo’s company, the two of them started going for evening walks together, gathering herbs and vegetables for dinner while the other dwarves bustled around the camp, tying up ponies and preparing the fire. Nobody ever asked Bilbo to do anything, so the hobbit fell into the habit of following Bombur around and helping him prepare dinner. Bombur didn’t mind. Bilbo was a very good cook and a great lover of food and they spent a lot of time exchanging recipes and chatting about various dishes they liked to prepare. 

Bilbo was usually very chatty, keeping up a steady stream of words as they prepared food, but one night he fell silent, chopping vegetables with enough force to make them fly off the chopping block, making it look like he had a personal grievance against them. Bombur watched Bilbo for a little while, noting that the hobbit held the knife in a furious, white-knuckled grip. 

Not wanting to have his best kitchen knife broken, Bombur touched Bilbo’s shoulder, drawing the hobbit’s attention.

“We should get some mushrooms for the stew before it gets too dark,” he said, gently taking the knife out of the hobbit’s hand.

Bilbo’s face brightened a bit at the mention of mushrooms, but quickly fell back into a scowl when they passed Thorin on their way into the woods. Bombur let Bilbo walk first, keeping a more sedate pace behind him to allow the hobbit to burn some of his anger. Finally they came upon a nice cluster of mushrooms, but Bilbo paid them no mind. Instead he stared into the distance, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

Bombur bent down to start picking the mushrooms, pointedly not looking at Bilbo.

“What’s the matter?”

Bilbo whirled toward him. 

“I feel useless sometimes, do you know?” he burst. It was obvious this had been just a rhetorical question, so Bombur stayed silent and waited for him to continue. 

“There are so many times when I look around and think ‘What have you gotten yourself into, Bilbo Baggins? You are not a warrior, or a thief, or an adventurer. You don’t belong here. What were you thinking, running off on a foolhardy quest with a bunch of dwarves you just met?’” He shook his head a bit. “I don’t have a place here. You all belong together, in one way or another. I am just a tag-along. Some days, I have no idea what I am doing here.” 

Standing below the towering pines, he looked small and deeply unhappy.

Bombur sighed and laid down the bag of mushrooms. Food could wait, he decided. Friend came first.

Walking over to the hobbit, Bombur gestured for him to sit down on a log and settled on a wide tree stump next to him.

“What makes you think that?”

For a moment, it looked like Bilbo would try to avoid the question, or come up with some excuse, but in the end he just lowered his eyes to the ground.

“I had an argument with Thorin this morning. You probably didn’t see it, because you all went ahead of me.” He gave Bombur a questioning look. Bombur shook his head.

“No, I didn’t hear anything. What happened?”

“When we all went to bathe in the small river near Weathertop, I slipped on some stones and fell under water. Before I could straighten up, Thorin pulled me out and then started yelling at me about danger and my stupidity. I told him that I would have been able to get out of the water on my own, since it wasn’t very deep, which prompted a lengthy lecture about my recklessness, in which he managed to insult me several times. I told him off.” Bilbo grimaced. “It didn’t go well and now I feel a bit ridiculous. After all, he _did_ help me.”

Bombur hummed in understanding, weighing his words.

“You’re quite brave, standing up to Thorin like that. Most dwarves I know wouldn’t dare raise their voices against him. I know _I_ wouldn’t dare. He had no right to insult you like that.” He gave the hobbit a stern look. “And you shouldn’t have yelled at him.”

“I know.” Bilbo played with a loose thread on his knee. “I am afraid our personalities don’t mesh very well. I am normally much more restrained in my anger, but Thorin just rubs me the wrong way. I think it will be better if I keep my distance from him, to prevent causing any more scenes.”

With a small sigh Bilbo slid down from the log and picked up the sack of mushrooms. 

“Come, Bombur, we should get the rest of the mushroom and go back before they send a search party after us. If I have learned anything about you dwarves, it’s that you are a grumpy lot when you’re hungry.”

They harvested the rest of the mushrooms in companionable silence. On the way back, it occurred to Bombur that there was something he wanted to know.

“Why _did_ you come with us, Bilbo?”

The hobbit huffed a laugh.

“To be honest, I have absolutely no idea. It was an impulse, a spur-of-a-moment decision. I just woke up in the morning and realized that I wanted to go with you. It makes no sense – I have a life in the Shire, my comfortable home, all my books and plenty of friends. Why would I exchange that for months of sleeping on the ground and trudging through mud in some godforsaken land, the name of which I cannot even pronounce, all for the promise of some elusive piece of dragon treasure that I won’t be able to take home anyway? But for some reason, going away on a quest with you lot just felt right, so I went.”

Bombur nodded in understanding.

“You know, I didn’t want to go on Thorin’s quest at all. Bofur pulled me along.” He smiled at Bilbo’s surprised expression. “Not all dwarves are warriors and adventurers, like Dwalin or Nori. Some of us prefer the comforts of home over the glory of a battle.”

He patted Bilbo on the shoulder and went back to the camp to prepare dinner, leaving the hobbit to ponder his words.

*****

“What have you been up to, dear brother?” Bofur plopped down on the log next to him a few days later, peering curiously into the pot. “I couldn’t help but notice that you have lately become friends with our resident hobbit.”

Bombur made a non-committal shrug, unwilling to satisfy his brother’s curiosity. It was one of their endless games – Bofur would try to wheedle information out of him and Bombur would pretend to play ignorant, just to enjoy his brother’s growing frustration. 

“Oh, come on, Bombur, don’t leave me in the dark. Everyone is dying of curiosity about him.”

Bombur continued stirring.

“Are they? Why don’t you talk to him yourself, if you’re so curious?”

Bofur made a face.

“I would, but I’m afraid that he still hasn’t forgiven me for making him faint.”

“That was two weeks ago,” Bombur pointed out. “Mister Baggins doesn’t strike me as someone who would hold grudges like that.”

“Still, a little more observation won’t hurt before I try to strike up a conversation with him.”

Bombur snorted.

“You act as if he was some dangerous wild beast you are hunting.”

Bofur grinned.

“He’s a funny little creature, that’s for sure. I have never dealt with Halflings before, so I don’t know what to expect.”

“He’s not that different from us, you know,” Bombur said, his eyes following the hobbit, who was preparing his bedroll on the other side of the camp. “He may be softer and a bit timid and have some strange mannerisms, but he seems to like most of the same things that we do. A good meal, a pint of ale, an interesting story and the pleasant company of friends. The last seems to be woefully lacking around here,” he couldn’t help but remark. 

They both paused to watch as the hobbit bent over his bedroll and picked up something, cradling it in his hands carefully. He shot a dirty look at Fíli and Kíli before he disappeared behind a tall rock to walk down to a nearby river. Bombur just shook his head and returned to his stirring. Not five minutes later Bilbo walked back, a long-suffering expression on his face. He made a beeline for Bombur but hesitated a bit when he saw that the portly dwarf wasn’t alone.

“Good evening, Bofur,” he greeted cautiously, his eyes flitting between the two brothers.

“Good evening to you as well, Mister Baggins,” Bofur gave him his customary grin, which made Bilbo relax a bit and he sat down on a nearby log, glaring at Kíli’s back. It didn’t take long for him to share the source of his vexation with them.

“There was a frog in my bedroll. Again.” 

Bombur gave him a sympathetic look.

“What was this? The third time?”

“Fourth,” Bilbo said. He gave them a bemused look. “Why are they doing this? Are they trying to bully me?”

“I think it’s their own strange way of showing affection,” Bombur told him. “They have always been like that, playing pranks on everyone. Before you joined the party, they played this prank on Ori. He almost cried when he found a snake sitting on his pillow.”

“Poor Ori,” Bilbo said, looking at the young dwarf, who was knitting happily by the fire. “If nothing else, it’s not very original. We used to play this prank when we were children. I thought they were old enough to know better.”

“They were hoping that you would scream like Ori did,” Bofur told him with a grin. “I think you must have greatly disappointed them.”

“I’m not afraid of frogs,” Bilbo said. “Or snakes, for that matter. Besides, even if I was, finding one in my bedroll for the fourth time rather lowers the shock value. Not only is their prank not effective, it’s not even original at this point. They could at least use a mouse or something for a change, the frog prank is getting old.”

“How come you know so much about pranks?” Bofur asked him, interested. Bilbo gave him a look.

“Young hobbits are full of mischief. I was no different. When I was a boy, I used to run around the Shire with a band of my Took cousins, causing trouble. It gave my mother no small amount of grief to hear about all the pranks we had pulled on our unsuspecting neighbours.”

“Maybe you should tell them about it. They love hearing tales like that,” Bombur said.

Bilbo gave the pair of princes in question a thoughtful look.

“I’d rather not give them any ideas.”

“Or you can stuff a frog in their beds in return,” Bofur told him with a grin. Bilbo grinned in response, but shook his head.

“That wouldn’t be wise. Thorin would have my head if he heard about it. I’ve seen how he chewed them out yesterday for that stunt with the ponies. I’d rather not cross him if I can help it.”

“I can’t fault you for that,” Bofur said. “Still, you should talk to them, or you will have froggy bedrolls all the way to Rivendell. They have trouble taking a hint unless you tell them outright.”

“That seems to be a common trait with you dwarves,” Bilbo said, but his tone was more amused than insulting. Bofur nodded in agreement.

“Aye, our kin can be pretty dense. Go talk to them, I’ll help Bombur with dinner.”

They watched as the hobbit walked over to Fíli and Kíli to deliver what looked like a pretty impressive lecture. Their fire was too far away from the ponies to hear what he was saying, but the young dwarves’ faces were telling enough. At first they looked sheepish, but their amusement quickly returned. In no time Bilbo was seated with them, the three heads bent together as he explained something.

Bombur turned back to his pot with a smile. Bilbo was finally making friends.

*****

Bombur was a kindly creature by nature and generally patient with everyone, but he was very touchy about his culinary prowess. So when a week later Óin started complaining about eating the same stew for five days in a row with Dori vocally joining in, Bombur threw down his ladle and stormed off into the woods, anger burning like bile in his throat.

They’re tired of his stew? He’ll tell them where they can stick it if they don’t like it. He stomped through the forest, fuming. 

Finally, he sat down on a tree stump and almost at once he could feel the anger bleeding out, leaving him feeling foolish. Why had he run away like that? And over such a silly matter... He had never been able to stay angry for long and when he did get angry, he just looked silly, not impressive like Thorin or Dwalin. Now he would have to go back to the camp and his companions would laugh at him for throwing a tantrum. He wasn’t looking forward to it in the slightest.

Suddenly, there was a slight movement behind the tree to his right. Bombur made to stand and reach for a weapon, but relaxed when he saw it was only Bilbo. 

The hobbit gave him a small smile of greeting, but stayed standing at the edge of the clearing. Bombur thought it was a bit sad that even though _he_ had considered them friends for weeks now, Bilbo was apparently still unsure of his welcome. 

“I had planned to sulk on my own for a while,” Bombur said, “but I think I’d rather have some company.”

The tension in Bilbo’s shoulders eased a bit and he walked over to him, sitting down on the soft forest floor.

“You know, Bombur, your companions are a bunch of ungrateful whiners. And hypocrites to boot.” 

Bombur looked around in alarm, praying that Thorin wasn’t hiding somewhere close, listening to the halfling badmouthing him. But luck, it seemed, was on their side and nobody had followed them from the camp. He motioned for the hobbit to lower his voice and whispered.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, they had the gall to complain about having warm food for dinner every night, even though none of them can cook half as well as you. If you ever decided not to cook dinner, they would have to content themselves with a few unseasoned, half burned squirrels.” 

Bombur smiled a bit, grateful for Bilbo’s attempt to cheer him up. Bilbo continued.

“But I found out something else. Fíli and Kíli are always eager to talk about their home and have told me many interesting things. Apparently, Thorin has a palace in the Blue Mountains and most of you lot live there with him. I was so moved by Balin’s story when he told us about the ransacking of Erebor that I believed Thorin all this time when he painted you as some poor band of homeless, orphaned dwarves, wandering the wilderness for nearly two hundred years.”

He cocked his head.

“But it’s not completely true, is it? If my calculations are correct, you have been living in the Blue Mountains for close to a hundred years. Fíli and Kíli were born there, spent their entire lives there. As have you.”

At Bilbo’s questioning gaze, Bombur slowly nodded.

“So I was right.” Bilbo looked pleased with himself. “Your merry companions would like to present themselves to me as a group of hardy warriors, toughened by years of hardship, but with the exception of Thorin, Balin and Dwalin, most of you have been living your lives quite comfortably these past few decades. Comfortably enough, in fact, that they have the gall to complain about having the wrong sort of stew for dinner.

“I am not trying to mock you,” he added quickly, when he realized how flippant he sounded. “I realize that losing your ancestral home to the dragon was a terrible tragedy and that a lot of your kin feel uprooted, but I think it is a bit ungrateful towards Thorin in particular when you all act like you are beggars. According to Balin, Thorin helped rebuild the ancient ancestral home in Belegost and your people are quite well-off these years.” He lowered his gaze. “I may not like Thorin much, but I respect what he has done for your people. He may have his faults, but he is a leader worth following. I can see why you all look up to him.”

“How can you dislike Thorin and admire him at the same time?” Bombur asked, puzzled. Bilbo snorted.

“Well, for one, he was awfully rude to me when we met. His barging into my home and insulting me as a way of greeting didn’t leave the best first impression. Since then, he has done little to endear himself to me. He is arrogant and overbearing and treats me like a particularly cumbersome piece of luggage, or a wet dog that somebody let into the dining hall.” He sighed.

“But however much I may dislike him as a person, I can see his worth as a leader. I may not like him, but I will follow him nonetheless.” He turned to look at Bombur. “Does that make any sense?”

Bombur took a moment to think about it. He himself was quite fond of Thorin, because the king loved his apple pies and would often come to his kitchen early in the morning to watch him bake and then steal a few of them away before his nephews discovered them. He had always treated Bombur with respect and made it a point to show that he valued his work. 

His own fondness for the king notwithstanding, Bombur could see why Bilbo might not like him. To an outsider Thorin seemed harsh and grim, his straightforward manner coming across as rudeness. For someone as used to gentle manners as Bilbo was, it must have been quite a shock to be treated with such disrespect. And, king or not, Thorin had been very rude to the halfling. 

Bombur didn’t dare give any of those thoughts voice, so he opted for nodding instead.

“I think I know what you mean.”

Bilbo got up from the ground, brushing pine needles off his trousers.

“Are your gloomy thoughts gone yet, Bombur?”

To his surprise, Bombur realized that he was indeed feeling much better. Bilbo’s presence was much more effective at dispelling his bad mood than any amount of brooding would have been. He stood up.

“Yes, thank you for coming after me.” He gave Bilbo a smile. “We should probably go back.”

They started walking at a leisurely pace, neither of them too eager to rejoin their companions just yet. 

“You know, Bombur,” Bilbo said, “if you are still feeling unappreciated, I can tell you that I know a most wondrous mix of herbs that will help you make the best rabbits roast tomorrow.”

They barely made it twenty feet before a shadow moved behind a nearby tree and Thorin stepped out, his face like a thundercloud.

“There you are.”

Bombur swallowed nervously, wondering just how much of their conversation Thorin had heard. He tried coming up with some excuse, but realized suddenly that Thorin wasn’t looking at him at all. His gaze was firmly trained on the hobbit, who looked rather puzzled by the attention.

Bombur finally found his voice.

“There was no need to come for us, Thorin. We were just coming back to the camp.”

The dark haired dwarf nodded and gestured for Bombur to lead the way, while he himself fell in step with the hobbit. Bombur breathed a small sigh of relief as he started heading back, glad that there was no problem after all. 

Just as the light of the campfire became visible through the trees, Thorin spoke up behind him.

“So, I am rude, am I?”

_To be continued..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you know that Bombur doesn’t have a single spoken line in the first hobbit movie? I think that’s a bit sad. The film is almost three hours long, and plenty of time is given to Radagast’s flailing and Saruman’s council, yet they couldn’t be bothered to give any lines to the dwarves who are the actual protagonists of the book. I really hope that the second movie improves upon that. 
> 
> I’m writing the chapters in this story with the movie characters in mind, but in the case of Bombur, I had nothing to go on. The movie ignores him almost completely and his only characteristics in the book are that he’s fat (mentioned at least once every chapter) and tends to complain a lot. Not the most flattering description. I’m really curious what you thought about my version, because this dwarf was tough to write for me.
> 
> The next chapter should be up in the next few days.
> 
> Disclaimer: No frogs were harmed during the making of this story :D


	3. Ori

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rivendell was the most beautiful place Ori had ever seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The rating has gone up, because Nori has a pottymouth.
> 
> This chapter now has Fanart! You can see it [here](http://nazgullow.deviantart.com/art/Discovering-Mr-Baggins-Ori-425474407). Many thanks to the talented Nazgullow for the illustration.

Rivendell was the most beautiful place Ori had ever seen. While the others grumbled about being tricked by the wizard and having to take refuge in a house of their enemies, Ori didn’t mind. He had never shared the dislike of elves that most of the other dwarves seemed to have. 

In fact, his feelings towards their hosts were quite the opposite – he had always secretly admired elvish culture and languages and had long hoped that he would be able to visit the Hidden Valley one day. When he was a boy, he had managed to come by a tattered copy of old Elvish tales and spent many years trying to decipher the language, eventually managing to learn the language well enough to be able to read the stories and poems within. Since then, he had read every book that he could get his hands on (which was a surprisingly high number, for a dwarvish library) and had spent plenty of days dreaming about mighty deeds and brave heroes from ages long past. 

Just like his drawing, his knowledge of elvish was a hobby that he hid away from the world and only used for his own enjoyment, guarding his skill most jealously. He especially liked the letters, the flowing elegance of the elven script as compared to the angular runes of the dwarven tongues and he soon started using the script for his personal notes, especially the ones he didn’t want his nosy brothers to read. 

Having spent most of his life in Ered Luin, he had never had the opportunity to meet any elves personally (the only ones he’d seen had been the ones heading for the harbour in Grey Havens, and those had been far off and too engrossed in their affairs to spare a moment for a curious dwarfling), but he had always hoped that he would be able to meet them one day. Thus, for him the elves had remained creatures of strange beauty, hidden by a veil of mystery. 

Coming into Rivendell had been like stepping into a dream. This was a place that still lived in the times of the legends, untouched by the changing world around it. The very architecture seemed to breathe with ages of history, giving the impression that any minute a hero of old might step around a corner, and it took all of Ori’s restraint not to go running to the library the first chance he had. He knew that Thorin wanted to leave as soon as possible, but still hoped that they might be able to stay at least for a few days.

They had little contact with the elves on their first night in Rivendell. After a quick dinner they all gratefully went to bed, weary after their flight from the orcs. Gandalf had opted to leave any serious business for the morning, letting them rest. They found their breakfast already waiting in their rooms when they woke up and even though a few of them were miffed about the absence of bacon, the fruit and wafers were nice enough.

Ori was just putting on his boots and wondering if he could go for a walk around the house when Thorin walked over to him, looking intent. 

“Your brother tells me that you can understand Elvish. Is that true?” He started without any preamble.

Ori looked up, startled.

“I- yes, a bit. I can’t speak it, though.”

Thorin leaned closer, lowering his voice.

“I want you to pay attention to what those pointy-eared bastards whisper behind our backs. Can you do that?”

“Ye- yes, I think so,” Ori stuttered. He dropped his eyes to the floor to avoid Thorin’s burning gaze. Having all that attention suddenly turned on his person made him highly uncomfortable.

“If you find out anything, report it to me.” Without further word, Thorin turned on his heel and strode away. 

Ori took a calming breath and waited a minute for his hands to stop shaking before he gathered his notebook and quill and went to search for the library. It didn’t take him long to find it. The room was enormous, spanning two floors and appeared to be completely empty at first. A closer look, however, revealed another occupant - one barely visible over the pile of books around him.

Bilbo Baggins was sitting at a corner table with an enormous volume opened in front of him and seemed to be in a world of his own. Not wanting to disturb him, Ori turned away and started to peruse the many bookshelves. He was so absorbed in reading the book titles that he didn’t notice the hobbit approach him until he was standing less than two feet away.

“Do you like books, Master Ori?” Bilbo asked, making the dwarf in question jump and back away a few steps. The hobbit raised his hands in an apologetic gesture. “I am sorry for startling you like that. I cleared my throat a few times, but you didn’t seem to hear me.”

“N-no, it’s quite all right,” Ori replied, walking back to stand on his previous spot. “I got lost in my own head for a bit. It happens to me a lot. Dori always scolds me for it, but I can’t help it.” He shut his mouth at once, embarrassed that he had gone on such a monologue, but Bilbo’s expression wasn’t mocking. If anything, the hobbit gave him an understanding smile.

“When I was younger I used to spend whole days just laying on my back under an apple tree in my mother’s garden and daydreaming,” Bilbo confessed in a low voice. “I was forced to stop my indulgence when I took over Bag-End, but I still enjoy a good story whenever I can get it.” He gave the bookcase a speculative glance. “Are you interested in elvish stories?”

His voice held none of the judgement that a dwarf’s would if they asked that question, so Ori decided to answer honestly.

“Yes, I like them very much. I think they are beautiful, all those tales of great battles and eternal love. I would read them all day if I could.”

“So would I,” Bilbo said, smiling. “You can read them here; there are all sorts of interesting books in this library. I think we are going to spend a few more days here, so you should have plenty of time to read.”

“If I only knew where to start,” Ori sighed, gazing wistfully at the library. “There are so many books here and so little time.”

“Let me help you,” Bilbo offered and they spent several enjoyable moments perusing the library as they looked for the perfect title. Together they selected several books and moved back to Bilbo’s table in the corner of the library. The desk was covered in maps and books and Bilbo moved a few of them carefully aside to make room for Ori’s books. Ori couldn’t help but feel curious upon seeing a map of Erebor lying on top of the books.

“Might I ask what you were reading before I came in? Unless it’s a secret,” he hastily added, remembering that Nori often didn’t like it when he asked him questions about his business.

“This?” Bilbo lifted the map in question. “I’m doing a bit of research. I know a fair bit about elves and their history, but next to nothing about dwarves - or dragons, for that matter. I don’t like being in the dark, especially since a dragon is involved and I’m expected to do something about him. All of this probably won’t help me much in the end, but at least I will have some idea of what I am facing.”

“That sounds reasonable,” Ori nodded. “I can tell you what I know about our history, but there are probably plenty of things that nobody told me, either because they thought I wasn’t old enough, or because they are a secret.”

“I would be happy to hear about it,” Bilbo said, “but for now I won’t keep you from your book. There will be plenty of time for dwarvish tales once we’re back the road.”

They settled into a comfortable silence, the books before them drawing them in. Time flew and sooner than Ori would have liked, a fair-haired elf came to summon them for lunch. 

To say the atmosphere at the meal was tense would be an understatement. The dwarves weren’t even pretending to pay attention to the elves now and Gandalf sat with Elrond at the far side of the table, muttering in Elvish. Thorin was tense, shooting the wizard sideways glances full of suspicion. Dwalin looked to be about two steps away from drawing his axe. The others huddled together, picking at their food, which was still woefully lacking any meat.

Suddenly, Bilbo’s voice rose above the table in a clear, if slightly accented Sindarin. Everyone around the table paused and several of the dwarves seemed to forget about the food in their hands. Elrond looked at the hobbit in surprise. 

“What did you say?” he asked in Westron.

“I said,” Bilbo switched to the Common tongue, “that it is awfully rude of you to speak in a language your guests do not understand, especially if they are sitting right next to you.” He flashed a pointed gaze at Thorin. “Also, if you were aiming for secrecy, you should have made sure that there is no one at the table who can understand you.” 

Reaching for a bread bun, he muttered: “I thought elves had better manners than this.”

There was a choking sound that sounded suspiciously like laughter and Gandalf hastily reached for a napkin, eyes twinkling.

Elrond luckily appeared more amused than angry at being admonished for his bad manners by a creature half his size. 

“Tell me, Master Baggins, do all hobbits speak Elvish?” The elven lord appeared genuinely curious. 

“Oh, definitely not,” Bilbo said. “Most of them don’t care about what goes on outside their own gardens. There are a few Tooks who sometimes travel to Bree, but that is as far as anyone goes. There is no need for anyone to learn Elvish, or Dwarvish, for that matter. Whatever Shire may be, a land of scholars it is not.”

“So how did you come by your knowledge of the Elven Tongue?” Elrond asked. “You speak surprisingly well for someone who has had little contact with my kin.”

Bilbo shrugged.

“I have books. I own several volumes of elvish poetry and old tales, brought from their travels by a few adventurous relatives of mine. When I have time, I translate them into the Common Tongue. I haven’t had much opportunity to speak the languages though. The elves passing through our lands are few and far between and seldom willing to stop for a while and chat with a hobbit.” 

“Do you speak Quenya as well?” 

Bilbo shook his head.

“Not much. I know a few words, but that’s about it. I find Sindarin a lot easier than High Elvish. I suppose that with time and some practice, I could speak both.” His eyes flitted over the present dwarves. “I am afraid that I never had the opportunity to learn any Dwarvish.” He gave an apologetic smile to Balin, who smiled in return. 

“You may learn yet, laddie.”

The rest of the meal passed much easier, with most of Elrond’s attention given to Bilbo, who was doing his best to answer all of his questions. Several elves came to speak with the hobbit after the lunch, surrounding him on one of the terraces, and they were delighted that such a tiny creature from far away land had knowledge of their language and culture. Bilbo’s Elvish was a bit halting at first, as he stumbled over some of the more difficult words, but with the passing time he started to relax and the words came to him easier. Soon he was chattering away, chuckling at a joke that one of the elves made.

Ori sat on a nearby bench, drawing in his notebook and listening to their conversation with half an ear, when a shadow fell on him. He looked up to find Thorin looming over him, watching the halfling with suspicion.

“What are they talking about?” Thorin murmured. 

Ori risked a quick glance at the group, making sure they couldn’t hear him.

“So far they have talked about the Shire, the hobbit race and gardening and right now they are discussing elvish poetry.” Ori thought it was innocuous enough, but Thorin’s face stayed clouded.

“Keep an eye on him.” He stormed away.

After dinner, which had been pleasant for a change, Elrond himself approached Bilbo. 

“Lindir tells me that you have put some of the ancient tales into verse. Would you be willing to recite a few of them this evening? We rarely have guests in Rivendell and my kin would love to hear you sing.”

Bilbo looked a little surprised at the request, but delighted nonetheless.

“Well, it is an honour, but surely you are used to much higher quality around here.”

Elrond gave him a rare smile.

“Have no worry about your reception. Hearing a new voice will be very refreshing.”

As if Elrond’s confidence had given him courage, Bilbo stood a little straighter, his chest puffing out. 

“If that’s the case, then surely I cannot refuse. However, I would prefer to sing tomorrow, if you don’t mind. It’s been a while since I last read those poems and my memory is a little rusty. Is there anything in particular you wish to hear?”

“My daughter is fond of the tale of Beren and Lúthien,” Elrond said. “As for my sons, you cannot go wrong with a tale of heroic deeds. You would have to ask the others yourself what they want to hear.”

“Well then, I will take my leave and prepare a few pieces.” Bilbo gave Elrond a small bow and walked out of the room. Most of the elves had already left as well, disappearing Mahal knows where. 

Glóin was looking after Bilbo’s retreating figure with a frown.

“He can sing? Did anyone know that?”

“I did.” Bombur said around his mouthful of bread. Everyone looked at him. He took a sip of wine to wash down the bite. “He has a nice voice.” 

“Why did he never sing for us?” Kíli sounded affronted. 

Bombur shrugged and reached for another loaf of bread, unwilling to tell any more. No amount of curious wheedling managed to get the plump dwarf to talk, so the Companions soon lost interest in the subjects and one by one wandered away to pursue their own pastimes. Ori decided to take a walk around Rivendell’s gardens and spent a pleasurable hour watching the sunset and soaking up the peaceful atmosphere.

When he came back into the room he shared with Dori and Nori, he found both of his brothers present, locked in one of their customary quarrels. They both fell silent when he entered, the air between them simmering with silent tension. 

Before he could ask about the source of their quarrel, Dori turned to him, his eyes checking for any signs of discomfort or injury. Ori used to find Dori’s checkups annoying when he’d been younger, his brother’s eyes making him feel like he was fifteen again and had just scraped his knee on the gravel path in front of their house, but out here on the road their ritual felt strangely soothing, like a small dose of normalcy among all the excitement and danger around them. 

“What have you been up to?” Dori asked. “We’ve barely seen you all day.”

Ori walked over to his bedside table, putting his books down.

“I spent the day in the library with Mr Baggins.”

“Spying for Thorin?” Nori raised a sarcastic eyebrow. 

“What- How did you-“ Ori sputtered. He recovered quickly enough, drawing himself up in face of his brother’s knowing smirk. “No, if you must know, I did it because I wanted to. Bilbo is nice and I enjoy his company. He knows a lot about elvish history and culture and he was kind enough to recommend several good books to me.”

“That sounds like a hobbit after your own heart,” Dori said with a small smile. “I’m glad you had a good time. I haven’t spoken with the hobbit much myself, but he seems like a polite, decent sort of fellow.”

Ori beamed. 

“Yes, I think we are well on our way to becoming friends.” 

“I hope you are not thinking of something more than friends,” Nori gave him a side-eye.

“What? No!” Ori backpedalled. “How did you even come up with that? He’s nice, but I don’t like him like that.”

“Good,” Nori said. “Just thought I should warn you in case you started to get any ideas - that path might be very dangerous. Borderline suicidal, even.”

“What do you mean-?” Ori started to ask, but Dori spoke over him.

“You’re one to talk,” he shot at Nori, “after the stunt you pulled today.”

“What?” Ori was confused. “What happened?” 

Dori and Nori exchanged a silent glance, obviously trying to come up with a way to hide the problem for him, but Ori wasn’t interested in hearing excuses. His brothers had always kept important things from him because they thought that he was too young to know about them and he was getting tired of being constantly left in the dark. He crossed his arms in front of his chest, trying to look more impressive than he felt.

“Please don’t lie to me,” he told them before Dori could open his mouth. “If I’m old enough to go on the quest with you, I’m old enough to know what’s going on.”

His brothers exchanged another look, before Dori gave Ori a resigned nod.

“Very well. You want to know what happened? I’ll tell you what happened. Our idiot brother thought it would be a great idea to pick a fight with Dwalin, of all people.”

Nori, who had gone over to the window, whirled back at that.

“I already told you it wasn’t my fault.”

“You should not provoke him like that,” Dori said. “You know how he is.”

“I didn’t start it!” Nori protested, “I was just minding my own business when he came over to me and accused me of stealing one of his knives. I told him that I didn’t have it, because I have plenty of knives of my own, and expressed my awe that he was even able to tell that something was missing, since he probably had trouble finding his own feet in the morning. That pissed him off and he started threatening me, at which point I helpfully suggested that he try looking for his missing knife inside his own arse, since his head seems to be permanently stuck in there. He then called me a bastard and threatened to cut off my head, at which point you arrived and dragged me away.”

Dori ran a hand over his face in clear exasperation.

“For Mahal’s sake, how many times do I have to tell you not to get into fights with him? I wouldn’t be the slightest bit surprised if he snapped one day and really cut your head off.”

“This has happened before?” Ori asked, puzzled. He had never noticed anything amiss between the two.

“Nori and Dwalin have had a feud for years now,” Dori said.

Nori sat down at the windowsill and started sharpening his knife, his expression surly. 

“He caught me stealing once and has been out for my blood ever since, trying to accuse me of made-up crimes just so that he can bully me.”

“You don’t exactly help the situation, acting like you do,” Dori pointed out.

“I don’t have to prove anything to him,” Nori replied haughtily. “He’s the one bullying me. I just call him out on it because he’s an idiot.”

“He may be an idiot, but he's also Thorin’s best friend,” Dori reminded him. “If it ever came down to the word of you two, who do you think he would believe? Thorin may trust you, but his kin will always come first for him.”

Nori made a disgusted face and returned back to his work, not willing to discuss it anymore. Ori walked over to his bed and crawled on it, leaning back until he was propped comfortably against the wall. He pulled a book on his lap, eager to continue reading the story. Before he opened the book, however, a flash of memory came back to him.

“I think that Fíli has it,” he told the dwarves in the room. They both raised their heads with the start, as if they had forgotten that he was there, too. 

“Fíli has what?” Nori asked.

“The knife,” Ori said. “I think I saw him playing with it this afternoon. He and Kíli sometimes secretly borrow Dwalin’s weapons and then snicker behind his back when he can’t find them. I’ll tell Fíli to give it back tomorrow, so that he stops bothering you.”

Nori gave him a crooked smile.

“That’s really nice of you, Ori, but I don’t think he will stop harassing me just because he learns that it wasn’t me this time. He’s like a dog with a bone.”

Dori, bless his heart, caught the hidden implication in Nori’s sentence.

“ _This time?_ Do you mean to tell me that you have stolen from him before?” His voice started rising dangerously and Ori lifted his book, trying to hide his face behind it. Dori on a rampage was a thing to behold and Ori hoped that he wouldn’t get caught in the ensuing blowout as well.

“What if I have?” Nori shot back, defensive. “It would only serve him right, the self-righteous prick.”

“You _have_ to be joking.” 

Ori slunk down from the bed and tiptoed to the door, leaving them to their argument. He was now almost regretting that he had ever asked. With his book clutched in his hands, he started back towards the library. The elves would surely have a nice lamp he could borrow.

*****

The argument was still going strong the next morning, making Ori’s head hurt from all the yelling. Because he was getting tired of Nori and Dori’s endless bickering, Ori decided to go for another walk around the gardens. The elves hadn’t forbidden them from leaving the house, so he decided to use the opportunity to explore Rivendell as much as he could. The sun had climbed over the horizon a good while ago, bathing the hidden valley in the golden light of early morning, and the many houses of the famed elven home stood around him in all their beauty, beckoning him to come and take a closer look.

Most of the other dwarves spent their days in Rivendell holed up in their rooms, grumbling about bloody tree-shaggers, but Ori didn’t care to imitate them. With the entirety of Rivendell at his disposal he felt like one of the heroes from old stories, with grand adventures waiting for him behind every corner. The few elves that he passed on his way to the gardens paid him little mind, for which he was grateful, because he knew that he must be gaping at all the wall murals and tapestries that he was passing.

Turning a corner, he spied a familiar curly-haired figure sitting on one of the stone benches at a nearby terrace. Bilbo had a book in his lap, but he wasn’t reading it. His head was tipped back into the sun and his eyes were closed, an expression of contentment on his face. Ori didn’t want to disturb him, but he must have made some noise because the hobbit’s eyes suddenly opened and he shot a quick look around before he saw Ori and relaxed again. He beckoned Ori to come closer and closed his eyes again, going back to basking in the sunlight.

Ori walked over and sat down next to the hobbit, trying to take a discreet peek at the book in Bilbo’s lap.

“I think I could stay here forever,” Bilbo said quietly. “It’s so beautiful and peaceful here.”

“It is beautiful,” Ori said. “It’s too bad that we won’t stay here for very long. I would love to explore the library some more.”

“I’m thinking of moving here when I am old,” Bilbo said. Ori looked at him in surprise. 

“I thought Shire was your home.”

Bilbo shrugged.

“It is. I am just not sure if I’ll be able to survive another sixty years there. My neighbours and relatives can be vexing on the best of days.”

“If you want to move away, why don’t you stay in Erebor with us?”

Bilbo snorted.

“I don’t think Thorin would allow that. He seems to be annoyed with everything I do. I can’t imagine him being willing to have me around permanently. Besides, I haven’t even seen Erebor yet. I have no idea if I will like it. Rivendell, on the other hand, is the most beautiful place I have ever seen. Just sitting here with a book brings me peace unlike any I have ever felt.” His eyes turned distant. “I think I will be in sore need of peace once this business with the dragon is over.” 

“It does all seem to be rather exciting, is it not?” Ori asked. “With the trolls and orcs and everything?” 

“A bit too much excitement for my taste,” Bilbo said. “And the thought that we’re barely halfway to Erebor doesn’t bring much comfort, either. Valar know what else will happen to us before we finally arrive to the mountain.”

He didn’t look very happy with the prospect. Ori decided to change the subject.

“You brought a book of poetry on the quest with you?” He nodded towards the book in Bilbo’s lap. 

“Didn’t you?” Bilbo raised an eyebrow. Ori lowered his gaze.

“I did,” he admitted, reaching into his jacket for the small volume. Instead of handing it to Bilbo he cradled it in his hands, running gentle fingers over the well-worn cover. “It probably won’t survive the journey, but I wanted to have it with me nonetheless.”

“Dwarvish poems?” 

“And elvish,” Ori said, flipping a few pages at random to show Bilbo a glimpse of the writing. “I have always wanted to write some stories of my own, but I never seem to find the right words.”

“What sort of tales do you dwarves have?” Bilbo cocked his head in curiosity. “Stories of mighty deeds and hoards of treasure?”

“Yes, we have plenty of stories like that,” Ori smiled. “We like tales about great heroes and bloody battles, but we have a lot of love stories as well. I think most of us have a soft spot for those, since love is so hard to find for our kind.”

“Is it?” Bilbo seemed genuinely interested.

“It is.” Ori nodded. “Less than half of us ever find someone to marry, so it is considered a great blessing for a dwarf to find their One. Those who don’t usually marry someone nice enough, but a lot of our kin just decide forgo marriage altogether and turn towards their craft instead.”

They fell silent after that, both of them getting lost in their own thoughts. A blur of movement caught Ori’s eyes and he spotted Thorin with his nephews on the terrace below. They were all dressed in their mail and it looked like Thorin was putting them through their paces, forcing them to practice their sword fighting and archery even here, in this peaceful place.

Ori pitied the princes a bit, because it was obvious that neither of them was pleased about being robbed of their free time, but at the same time he couldn’t help but feel a little envious of their grace and skill with which they wielded their blades. He himself had never managed to learn how to fight properly and he knew that his sling was a source of amusement among the older companions.

He was drawn out of his thoughts by Bilbo’s voice. The hobbit was watching the trio of dwarves as well, his expression thoughtful as he followed Thorin with his eyes. 

“Did Thorin’s partner die?” he asked quietly. “Is that why he is in such a bad mood all the time?”

Ori looked around in alarm to make sure nobody was listening to their conversation.

“You can’t just ask something like that,” he told the hobbit in a hurried whisper. When Bilbo’s face pulled into a confused frown, he continued more calmly. “Our romantic lives are a very private matter for dwarves, especially when the romance doesn’t end well.” 

“Oh,” said Bilbo. “I didn’t know that. I’m sorry if my question was inappropriate.” He made a move to stand up, but Ori halted him, shaking his head. He took another cautious look around before he leaned closer.

“It’s not really proper of me to talk about this, but since I don’t know much, I don’t think it can do any harm.”

Bilbo leaned closer on the bench, eyes full of curiosity.

“I don’t know Thorin very well, you see,” Ori told him in a confidential whisper. “Before this quest started, I have only ever seen him from afar, so I’m not privy to his secrets, but as far as I know he’s not married at the moment nor has he ever been. Maybe his partner died long ago, but I think it’s more probable that he never met anyone, because the local gossips like to tell tales about his sister’s frustration with Thorin’s continued refusal to take a spouse. I don’t know how much of that is true and what has been made up – you would probably have to ask Nori about that, since he is much more knowledgeable about those things than I am.”

“No, that’s all right,” Bilbo said, looking a bit embarrassed. “I really didn’t mean to pry into his private business. I was just wondering why he always seems so grim. Thank you for telling me this.” 

He resolutely tore his eyes away from the trio below and stood up, slipping the book of poems back into his vest pocket.

“Come, Ori, there should be enough sunlight in the library by now for us to read comfortably.”

*****

That night Ori came into the music hall to find it full of elves seated around the room on various chairs and stools, waiting in anticipation. Bilbo was standing at the front of the room, talking to the harpist in a low voice. Ori made his way to Balin, who was already seated in a comfortable armchair in a corner. The older dwarf smiled at him and handed him a cushion.

When Ori was seated, Balin leaned to him and whispered: “It is amusing, how our companions think they are being inconspicuous.” He nodded in the direction of the hallway, where stood several of the dwarfs, their heads poking over the railing. 

Their attention was soon diverted back to Bilbo, who had finally stepped forward to present his first poem, and from the corner of his eye Ori could see the dwarves slowly starting to sneak into the hall and trying to sit down nonchalantly. Balin’s grin grew with every passing dwarf, but his eyes stayed resolutely on the hobbit.

Bombur had been right – Bilbo really did have a lovely voice. He sang in a clear, pleasant tenor that harmonized nicely with the harp and carried around the hall. He sang several ballads and even though some of the verses didn’t quite do justice to the Elvish original, the elves didn’t seem to mind, smiling at him indulgently. 

Most of the company had gradually gathered in the hall, curiosity getting the better of them and winning over their dislike of anything elvish. Only Dwalin had openly refused to come, declaring the whole affair “poncy elvish nonsense” and Thorin had disappeared right after dinner, but as Ori looked around in the middle of Bilbo’s rendition of “The Fall of Gondolin”, he spied the dwarven king standing by the door, hidden in the shadows. Thorin had a strange look on his face as he gazed at the hobbit and Ori didn’t know what to make of it. 

Later, when most of the company had already gone to bed and Ori was returning from his bath, he came by chance across Gandalf and Thorin, who were standing together below one of the balconies. They were talking in low voices, but Ori had sharp ears and when he leaned in close enough, he had no trouble discerning their words.

“Your Halfling is spending an awful lot of time with those tree-shaggers, muttering in elvish,” Thorin was saying. “I don’t like it. Are you really sure he is trustworthy?”

“Do not question my judgement, Thorin Oakenshield.” Gandalf sounded rather irritated, as if this was an argument they had had several times before and he was running out of patience. “I personally chose him for this quest. If I say he is trustworthy, then trustworthy he is. The elves have simply taken a liking to him and he enjoys their company, because they treat him with respect, unlike some.” He gave Thorin a very pointed glare.

Thorin huffed.

“If he likes the pointy-eared bastards so much, then why doesn’t he just stay with them? Nobody forced him to come with us.” His voice sharpened. “What use is he to the company? He cannot fight. He’s not even a proper burglar. So far, I haven’t seen any qualities that would earn my respect and I very much doubt that the dragon will be charmed by his elvish poetry. Why did he come with us, Gandalf?”

“You will have to ask him that, for I do not know. Bilbo’s reasons for joining your quest are his own and I do not presume to know his heart. As for his qualities – you will have to discover those for yourself. I doubt that even he is fully aware of all the things he is capable of. Give him time, he may surprise you yet.” 

“I very much doubt that,” Thorin said haughtily.

“Let him be, Thorin. If nothing else, right now he is doing a marvellous job of averting the attention away from your quest.”

Thorin looked surprised.

“That...is true. I have to admit, nobody has asked after the purpose of our journey yet, and we have been here for three days already. I had expected a shower of questions, but everyone has been too busy fawning over the Halfling to pay any attention to us.” His eyes narrowed. “Is he doing all of this on purpose?” 

Gandalf just gave him a mysterious smile and walked away, humming a tune under his breath. Thorin sat down on the bench, looking thoughtful. 

Suddenly, heavy footsteps sounded in the hallway and Ori realized that he was standing on a balcony in his nightshirt and anyone could walk by and see him spying on their leader. Clutching his bundle of clothes tightly to his chest, Ori carefully tiptoed away.

_To be continued..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word of warning: not all of the dwarfs are warm and cuddly. In the book version they all resemble a group of doddering uncles, bumbling their way to Erebor (except for Thorin, who is insufferable half the time) and the movie didn’t give most of them much space to shine, either, so I have decided to take it upon myself and give the dwarves a bit of a personality, to make them distinguishable from each other by something besides their hair. I like all of the dwarves and won’t do any bashing, but I thought it might be interesting to give some of them a bit of greyer morality, so that they aren’t all just copies of each other.
> 
> The feud between Dwalin and Nori is entirely my fabrication and has nothing to do with either the book or the movie. From my experience, a group of people can’t spend this much time in such close quarters without conflicts. Not all of these dwarves were friends when they set out - about half of the group are various relatives from the Durin line, while the rest are just random dwarves who had joined them for various reasons. I thought it wouldn’t be unreasonable to think that after the initial excitement from the Shire wore off, the gears would start to grind a bit. Mr Tolkien mentions a few conflicts within the group, but he never elaborates, so I decided to play with that aspect a bit.
> 
> The next chapter should be up sometime this week. Feedback is always welcome :)


	4. Bofur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beorn’s house was a welcome reprieve after all the excitement with the goblins and the wargs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter now has Fanart! You can see it [here](http://nazgullow.deviantart.com/art/Discovering-Mr-Baggins-Bofur-425549156). Many thanks to the talented Nazgullow for the illustration!

Beorn’s house was a welcome reprieve after all the excitement with the goblins and the wargs. The journey from Carrock had been slow, the company weighted down by their tiredness and various injuries. Though Thorin had tried to hide it, the wounds from the white warg must have hurt a lot and even after Óin had cleaned and dressed them, Thorin still moved stiffly, his face tightened in a pained frown. 

Everyone had been overjoyed by the prospect of being able to sleep in safety, with a roof over their heads, so they all went willingly with Gandalf’s ridiculous scheme to invade Beorn’s house in pairs. Bofur saw a raised eyebrow or two and Balin looked rather amused when Gandalf proposed his strategy, but nobody cared to point out that it was the exact same plan Gandalf had used that evening in Shire when they had visited Bilbo. The hobbit himself remained completely oblivious to the smirks around him, his head probably full of thoughts of food and warm beds.

After the initial mistrust Beorn proved himself to be a generous host and soon they were fed and comfortable, reclining by the fire. Óin busied himself by tending to their various scrapes and injuries that he hadn’t had the time to address earlier and the rest of them just sat around, enjoying the moment of peace and quiet. 

Bilbo had remained seated at the table, polishing off all the honeycakes he could reach before he sat back with a satisfied sigh, patting his belly. The gesture made him wince a little and he shuffled a little closer to the fire, raising his hands up to examine them in the firelight. Frowning at his discovery, the hobbit stood up from his seat and padded over to where their host was sitting.

“Master Beorn?” he addressed the huge man timidly. “Could I borrow a small pot of honey, please?” 

Beorn bent down to look at him.

“And what do you need honey for, little bunny?”

Bilbo looked a little affronted at the address, but kept silent, probably aware that arguing wouldn’t help him get the favour he wanted.

“Back home we use honey to treat scrapes and injuries,” Bilbo answered. “I just thought that I may use it for my hands, instead of whatever ointment Óin is using.” He shot a look at the elderly dwarf, who was tending to Dwalin’s cuts in the corner. Judging by the burly dwarf’s grimace, the treatment wasn’t very pleasant.

“Honey, you say?” Beorn cocked his head. “Very well, I’ll give you some honey. Do you need anything else?” 

“Well,” Bilbo said, “you wouldn’t happen to have a potato, would you?”

That made Beorn guffaw and he threw his head back, slapping his thigh several times.

“A travelling circus indeed. You’re a strange creature, little bunny, but since you ask so nicely, I will get you both the honey and the potato. Come with me.”

They disappeared through one of the side doors of the hall, Bilbo’s short legs doing their best to keep up with Beorn’s long strides. Not five minutes later the hobbit came back, looking pleased with his loot. He carried both things over to the table and sat down with a look of concentration. It didn’t take long for Ori to wander over and sit down next to him, his eyes full of curiosity. 

“What are you doing, Bilbo?”

Bilbo tipped his fingers in the jar of honey and carefully smeared the stuff over the scrapes on the backs of his hands. 

“I got a bit scraped in the goblin caves. Honey is good for treating wounds and cuts like this.”

“Is it?” Ori asked with interest. “I never heard of this.”

Bilbo gave him a look.

“I don’t know what sort of stuff you dwarves use, but honey works perfectly fine for smaller injuries. It seals the wounds and prevents infections.” His gaze slid down to Ori’s hands. “You haven’t stopped by Óin yet, have you? Take off those gloves, I’ll have a look at your hands.”

Ori didn’t even hesitate before he stripped off his knitted mittens, offering his hands for inspection. 

“You got scraped in the trees, didn’t you?” Bilbo asked as he washed and cleaned the cuts before he smeared honey on them. “Try not to touch anything for a while, unless you want all your things to be sticky,” he warned the shy dwarf. Ori nodded his head obediently, keeping his hands above the table. 

“Why do you have the potato?” Bofur finally asked. His seat wasn’t far from the table, so he had good view of the hobbit. Bilbo looked up with a smile.

“That one is for burns.”

“I have a few burns,” Fíli spoke up, walking over to the table. “I haven’t been to see Óin yet, either.”

“Did you get burnt by the pine cones?” Bilbo asked, gesturing the blond dwarf to sit down. Fíli nodded. “Show me.” 

Fíli took off his gloves and pushed back his sleeves, holding his hands toward Bilbo.

“That’s not so bad,” Bilbo said, reaching for a knife. “Still, it can’t be pleasant. Let me just slice this potato and you can put it on the burns.” 

With some help from Ori he managed to bandage Fíli’s hands to the satisfaction of them both.

“Thank you,” Fíli smiled. “It feels better already.”

“Can I get some honey, too?” Kíli popped up behind Bilbo’s back.

“Of course,” the hobbit replied, shifting to make room for him on the bench. The young dwarf plopped down next to him, looking at Bilbo expectantly. 

“I have a few cuts on my face, from where I got slapped by the branches.” 

“Hold your hair out of your face,” Bilbo told Kíli, who obeyed at once, pulling his hair back with both hands.

As Bilbo reached for the honeypot and started smearing the honey over the cuts on Kíli’s face, Bofur took a moment to look around. Most of the Companions were watching the scene with amusement, but Thorin sat in the corner, observing the exchange with narrowed eyes. Well, thought Bofur, _that’s_ an interesting development. Nobody else seemed to notice Thorin’s reaction so Bofur turned his face away as well, pretending that he hadn’t see anything. That was one matter he would not interfere with. 

“Where did you learn this?” Kíli asked as Bilbo treated a cut on his cheek. “I had no idea you were a healer.”

“I’m no healer,” Bilbo shook his head. “I just know a few common Shire remedies. My mother used to treat me with honey when I scraped my knees as a boy.”

“Hmm, this is definitely better than being doused by spirits,” Kíli said, giving Bilbo a sunny smile. 

“I certainly hope so.” Bilbo returned the smile. “If you wait for a bit, I can have a look at your hands, too.”

Before he knew it, there were several dwarfs standing around the table, looking expectant. Bilbo looked up at them in surprise.

“If you have any deeper cuts, you should go to Óin. I can only treat the superficial wounds.”

“Do you still have any of that potato?” Nori asked.

“Well, yes,” Bilbo said, “there should be plenty of it left.” His eyes flew over the group. “I’m really not a healer, you know.” 

Nobody moved. Bilbo gave a small sigh, his expression turning resigned. 

“Oh, well. Who’s next?”

*****

In the morning they woke feeling refreshed and after a plentiful breakfast the dwarves finally sat down to take stock of all the things they had lost in the goblin caves. They weren’t pleased with the results – the goblins had taken most of their baggage and so they had lost food, spare clothes, extra weapons and most of their musical instruments. They were left only with the clothes on their back and four backpacks that a few of them had grabbed in their haste. Bombur was quite pleased that he had managed to hold onto his pots and pans, but most of them were awfully grumpy.

Their mood didn’t improve when they discovered that Gandalf was nowhere to be found, his absence reminding them of his oncoming departure. They hadn’t managed to persuade the wizard to stay with them and help them slay the dragon. Gandalf’s mind was set on leaving and convincing him to change it would be nigh impossible. They would still try, of course, but deep down they all knew that their days in Gandalf’s company were coming to an end. 

Bilbo had snuck out right after breakfast, leaving them to their grumbling. Getting sick of listening to everyone’s complaints, Bofur decided to get a breath of fresh air and go find their elusive companion instead. Luckily he didn’t need to search for long, because Bilbo hadn’t wandered very far. Bofur found him sitting by the little brook that ran through the land behind Beorn’s house, washing his clothes. The hobbit didn’t seem perturbed by his presence, so Bofur sat down next to him and drew out his pipe. 

Bilbo didn’t pay him much attention at first, busy with getting the goblin dirt and soot out of his jacket, but when he finally finished washing his clothes and laid them on the grass to dry, he plopped on the ground next to Bofur with his waistcoat in his hands, a frown on his face. 

“I suppose the clothes won’t get much cleaner,” he said resignedly. “It is a terrible shame that I lost my buttons. My jacket and waistcoat are all torn up now and I shudder to think how I will look when we finally arrive to the mountain.” He grimaced. “Hardly respectable, I would imagine.”

“You really liked those buttons, didn’t you?” Bofur asked him with a smile. 

Bilbo ran his fingers over the torn threads sticking out from the cloth where the buttons used to be.

“Yes, I did. They were very nice brass buttons with flowers on them. Not as pretty as the golden buttons on my fancy jacket, but I left that one at home. This waistcoat was my favourite, but now it’s ruined.” His eyes ran over the garment, cataloguing all the damage. “I suppose that I can make it presentable again with a bit of mending, but I will have to make do without buttons. It’s a shame.”

“Give it here.” Bofur reached for the waistcoat, fingering the torn cloth thoughtfully. “I am pretty sure that Ori still has his sewing kit. You could borrow it and repair the tears. How big were the buttons?”

As he sat listening to Bilbo’s avid description, a thought started forming in his head. He didn’t say anything to Bilbo though, wanting it to be a surprise. 

One of those huge yellow bees buzzed overhead and landed on a nearby clover patch. They both watched it work, not moving from their comfortable position on the grass. The sun had already risen above Mirkwood and was now bathing their little spot by the water in warm morning light. With the rest of the dwarves all holed up in the hall the air outside was quiet, the only noises made by the bees and the occasional breeze that found its way through the mighty oaks that stood all around them.

They sat like that for a while, basking in the sun, until they got interrupted by Kíli, whose head appeared around the corner. 

“Uncle is looking for you, Bilbo.”

“I am afraid he will have to come here, if he wants to talk to me,” Bilbo informed him. “My clothes still haven’t dried and I am not going to parade around the house half naked.” 

Kíli’s head disappeared and soon enough Thorin came around the corner, halting when he saw them sitting together. His eyebrows pulled into a frown as he took in the scene and Bofur suddenly realized how their position could look to an outsider – Bilbo sitting on the grass dressed only in his smallclothes, the two of them bending close together to look at the fabric laid over Bofur’s lap. Seeing Thorin’s eyes start to narrow, Bofur hastily got to his feet, handing Bilbo his waistcoat back. 

“I will go ask Ori about that thread and needle and see what can be done about the buttons. I am sure the waistcoat and jacket can both be salvaged.” He hastily backed off, making sure to give Thorin a wide berth when he passed him. The older dwarf didn’t seem to be in a very good mood and Bofur had no intention of risking his wrath. Instead of listening to their conversation, Bofur headed straight inside, making a beeline for Bifur. 

His cousin was quite enthusiastic about helping him and immediately went outside to search for a suitable piece of wood. In the meantime Bofur managed to sweet-talk Ori into lending him a needle and a piece of thread. 

Bilbo came back to the hall half an hour later, fully dressed and trailing behind Thorin with a disgruntled look on his face. He sat down with Bofur and Bombur, shooting bewildered glances in Thorin’s direction as he ate. 

“Thorin took it into his head that I need to learn sword fighting, of all things,” he told them in a low voice when they asked him what happened. “He wants Dwalin to teach me. I am not sure which one of us is less pleased about the idea.”

They turned to look at the tattooed dwarf, who was staring into his soup, looking thunderous. 

“Dwalin taught Fíli and Kíli, you know,” Bombur pointed out. Bilbo gave an exasperated huff.

“Yes, but they are both _dwarves_. You are good at these things. I am more likely to accidentally cut off my toes than slay orcs.”

“Not all of us are good at fighting, you know,” Bofur said. “And those who are have had decades of practice. There is no shame in being a beginner. Also, Dwalin may not look it, but he can be surprisingly patient.”

“We’ll see about that,” Bilbo muttered into his soup.

*****

For skilled carvers like Bofur and Bifur it took just a few hours to make a nice set of simple buttons. Bofur would have been satisfied with a plain, functional design, but Bifur insisted that they carve flowers on them, so it took them until mid afternoon before they were satisfied with their work. They presented them to Bilbo at teatime, rendering the hobbit speechless. He took the small pouch reverently, looking at them with wonder.

“You...made me buttons.” He ran his thumb over the flower design. “This means a lot to me. Thank you.” 

And before Bofur could react, Bilbo reached up and gave him a warm hug. There was little left to do but hug back, and Bofur couldn’t help but marvel at how simple it was to win the hobbit’s affection. Bilbo pulled away from him with a smile, but paused when he came before Bifur, obviously unsure how to convey his thanks. 

“Thank you, Bifur,” he said finally, giving the dwarf a tentative smile. 

Bifur grinned back and patted his shoulder, answering in Khuzdul.

“You’re welcome,” translated Bofur. “It was the least we could do for you.”

Bilbo gave them one more smile and scuttled away to attach his new buttons to his clothes. He was completely oblivious of Thorin’s eyes following him to the corner; Bofur, however, was only too conscious of the weight of that gaze when it settled on him. Bofur had no idea what Thorin’s newfound interest in the hobbit meant, but he wasn’t too pleased to be caught in the scrutiny as well. 

For lack of anything better to do Bofur decided to take a walk across Beorn’s grounds. He had noticed the horses the previous day and wanted to give them a closer look. The corral stood just behind the house, its wooden planks far enough apart for him to reach through and pet the horses’ heads. Beorn’s horses and ponies were big, shaggy and very friendly, inspecting Bofur’s pockets for pieces of bread that he had squirreled away at breakfast. He spent a good while petting them, pushing away their inquisitive noses when they tried to chew on his braids.

Bofur had always liked animals, but there was little opportunity to keep any back at home, because his quarters in Ered Luin were deep inside the mountain. His mother used to keep songbirds when he and Bombur were little, but after their father had died in a cave-in she had set them free and never kept any birds again. 

Unlike him, Bifur was always surrounded by animals. He took care of the king’s hunting dogs and was always willing to feed any stray cat that came to his door. When he wasn’t annoying Bombur or drinking with the lads, Bofur spent most of his free time at Bifur’s house, helping him feed the menagerie. Bifur was always happy to see him and Bofur enjoyed the visits because they gave him an opportunity to take a break from the endless darkness of the mineshafts.

The ponies lost interest in him after a while and went back to eating grass and rolling around in the dirt. Bofur took the long way back, going around the far side of the house to admire Beorn’s beehives. Listening to the peaceful buzzing, he wondered whether he would be able to keep bees in Erebor, once they got it back. After a hundred years he was getting sick of mining.

When he turned the corner, he spotted Bilbo on the porch, sitting on a bench with Ori. The hobbit had his little book open in his hand and Ori was peering at it eagerly, exclaiming every now and then when he found something interesting. Too curious to leave them be, Bofur made his way over to them.

Bilbo was just pointing to a drawing on one page. 

“And that is one of the trolls. I am afraid the likeness is not very truthful to the original, as I was rather busy hanging upside down to look at them properly.”

Ori shook his head with a grin.

“I think it looks fine. You should see some of Dori’s drawings. You wouldn’t be able to tell apart a dwarf from a tree.”

“Oi! I heard that!” came an affronted yell from inside the hall.

“What else do you have in here?” Ori asked.

Bilbo skimmed through the pages briefly. 

“A few drawings, some maps and a lot of notes.” He raised his head to look at Bofur. “I’m planning to write a book about this adventure when I come back home,” he explained.

Bofur sat down at Bilbo’s other side, taking a peek at the book.

“That’s an awful lot of notes.”

“I like to be thorough,” Bilbo said. “Besides, it will be a long time before I return home. I could forget a lot in the meantime and the tale wouldn’t be as good then.”

“Would you like me to do some illustrations for your book, Mr Baggins?” Ori asked, eyes alight with enthusiasm. 

Bilbo gave him an indulgent smile.

“It would be an honour, Ori.”

Ori jumped up, practically bubbling with excitement, and ran into the house to get his drawing supplies. Bilbo looked after him with fond exasperation.

“The lad is rather excitable, is he not?” 

Bofur chuckled, reaching for his pipe. 

“He’s young and this is his first big trip outside the Blue Mountains. I would be excited too, in his place. May I?” He reached his hand towards the little book and waited for Bilbo to hand it over. Puffing from his pipe, he started reading. He belatedly realized that Bilbo was sitting next to him empty handed.

“You’re not smoking today?”

“I lost my bag of pipe weed in the cave,” Bilbo grumbled. 

“Here, have some of mine.” Bofur handed him his own pipe and went back to the book. It wasn’t long before he started laughing.

“Oh, this is priceless. Will you be putting it in the book, too?” 

Bilbo looked over his shoulder to see which part Bofur meant. 

“That depends on how annoyed with you lot I will be when this adventure is over.”

Bofur went back to his reading, chuckling occasionally when he came across something amusing. Bilbo sat next to him, making smoke rings and looking at peace with the world. 

“Do you know what I missed most in the goblin caves?” Bilbo’s question was quiet, wondering.

“Food?” Bofur guessed.

“Sunlight.” Bilbo tipped his head back towards the sun and closed his eyes, letting the warm rays of light caress his face. “I missed the sun, like I have never missed anything else before. We hobbits may live in holes in the ground, but they are well lit and there is always plenty of sunlight. It was terrible to think I would never see the sun again.”

Raising his arms up in a languid stretch, Bilbo got up from the bench and traded Bofur’s pipe back for his book. He stepped down from the low porch and he made a few steps until he was up to his calves in grass.

“I missed this, too.” He turned back and gave Bofur a playful grin. “You know, you dwarfs are missing out on a lot, always walking around with your feet imprisoned in those death traps. You should try walking barefoot sometimes.”

Bofur shook his head in mock regret.

“Maybe some other time. I am too intimidated by the bees to try it here. One sting and my leg would fall clear off.”

The hobbit laughed, his eyes filling with mirth. 

“Yes, they do look a bit scary, don’t they? Still, it’s your loss, Bofur. You don’t know what you’re missing out on.” 

Ori came running back, clutching a few sheets of paper and a charcoal in his hands. 

“I’ve got my drawing supplies!” he announced eagerly, skipping down the stairs. 

“That’s wonderful,” Bilbo told him with a smile. “Come, let’s take a walk around the grounds and you can tell me about your ideas for my book.” 

“It’s beautiful here, isn’t it?” Ori said, joining Bilbo’s side. They started walking at a leisurely pace, leaving Bofur to sit on the bench by himself. 

“Indeed it is,” Bilbo said. “It feels a lot like Shire in some ways.” He gave Ori a look. “Did you know that hobbits are said to have come from these lands? Some of our tales claim that before my ancestors crossed the Misty Mountains and settled down in the Shire, they used to live in the lands around the Great River.”

“Really?” Bofur heard Ori say before they disappeared around the corner. Bofur had half a mind to join them, feeling curious about the topic of their conversation, but in the end decided to remain sitting and leave them alone. Ori deserved to have some time away from his overprotective brothers and Bofur could always ask Bilbo about the hobbits at some other time. He had a feeling that there would be more than enough time for conversation in the forest.

*****

“So, Master Baggins,” Thorin said, as they sat down for supper, “you have told us plenty about what you are _not_ , but you have made little mention about what you _are_. You have been travelling with us for three months already, but we know almost nothing about you.”

That prompted several thoughtful looks around the table. 

“Aye,” spoke Glóin, “now that I think about it, you really haven’t told us much. You can cook and sing and speak elvish, but we only know about that because the tree-shaggers wouldn’t shut up about it. When I asked Gandalf about you, he started being all mysterious and refused to answer.”

“He did the same to me,” Dori grumbled. “I didn’t get a single sensible word out of the wizard. There is plenty I’d like to know, but one thing interests me in particular: How on earth did you get past the goblins after we lost you?”

And so Bilbo told them all about Gollum and the game of riddles, carefully leaving out any mentions of a magic ring (Bofur later had to admire the skill with which he had spun his tale, blurring details just enough to make it believable). His Gollum impression made the hair stand on the backs of their necks and when he finished they made him tell the whole tale all over again, so that they could make sense of it.

“Let me get this straight,” Nori said when Bilbo finished his tale. “You managed to sneak around a small army of goblins, outwit a dangerous goblin-eating creature and find your way out of the mountain in complete darkness when you got lost in a maze of tunnels.” Bilbo nodded slowly. “That is no mean feat indeed. If I had a hat, I would tip it off to you.” 

“Here, you can borrow mine.” Bofur threw him his hat with a grin. Nori caught it with his right hand and stood up, making a show of taking it off his head and bowing low before the hobbit, who was staring at him with wide eyes. The halfling may not have realized the full significance of the gesture, but getting acknowledgement for his skills from Nori, an infamous thief and master of stealth was high praise indeed. 

“And that stunt with the Azog...you have courage, lad, I have to give you that,” Dwalin chimed in, giving the hobbit an appraising glance. The rest of the company were looking at him with new respect. Even Thorin looked impressed despite himself.

“Tell me, Master Baggins, are there any other skills you are hiding from us?” 

Bilbo appeared highly flustered with all the attention.

“I do not have any secret skills, really. I’m just a hobbit. There is not much interesting about me.”

“Surely there must be, or Gandalf wouldn’t have chosen you as our companion.” Kíli was leaning across the table, his eyes alight with interest.”Tell us more about yourself, Bilbo. You have been keeping to yourself too much.”

Bilbo sighed, reaching for another honeycake.

“What would you like to know?”

“What’s your occupation?” Dori spoke up from the other end of the table. “You have mentioned plenty times that you are not a burglar, but you haven’t mentioned your profession at all.”

Bilbo shifted in his seat.

“That’s because I don’t have one. I’m a gentlehobbit, which basically means that I have inherited enough gold to never have to work a day in all my life, if I wished so.” 

_It’s no wonder he hasn’t mentioned his wealth before_ , Bofur thought when he saw the disapproving frowns around him. The hobbit’s luxurious lifestyle could be almost considered a mockery to someone living their live in exile. Bilbo probably noticed the change in mood too, because he hastened to continue. 

“I will not deny that I have led a very comfortable life, but I would die of boredom if I did not have anything to occupy myself with. I used to travel a lot in my youth. I have travelled as far as Weathertop in the east and Fornost in the north.” 

“So you actually _did_ travel?” Fíli asked. “Gandalf didn’t make that up?”

“No.” Bilbo smiled. “I have even been to the Blue Mountains once, but I did not stay for long.” He smiled at their surprise. “Yes, I have seen your city in the mountains and the Grey Havens of the elves. However, after my father unexpectedly died fifteen years ago I had to stop wandering about and start looking after my mother and the family estates. My father owned several vineyards in East Farthing that were bought by my grandfather more than a hundred years ago. Since I was his only child, all of it passed to me.” 

He laughed suddenly.

“You know, Thorin was not far from the truth when he called me a grocer. I am a trader, of sorts, though most of my contribution to the business consists of signing papers and paying out wages. I have to admit that leaving like I did was highly irresponsible of me. I was not jesting when I said that I cannot just go running off into the blue. I abandoned a lot of responsibilities when I ran off with you lot. Someone has to oversee the fields, to make sure the grapes are tended well and the wine is a good enough quality before it can be sold.”

“So you’re a _wine merchant_?” Dwalin asked with a hint of distaste.

“I prefer to think of myself as a scholar,” Bilbo replied haughtily, making them laugh. “Anyway, I spend most of my time reading and tending to my garden. The vineyard business mostly takes care of itself.”

The talk turned to other things after that, the conversation flowing pleasantly. Everyone was relaxed, drinking and laughing and Bilbo sat at the centre of the company, looking - for the first time since the start of their adventure - completely at ease. 

As Thorin’s deep laugh resonated around the table, Bofur suddenly realized that he hadn’t heard their leader laugh for a very long time. Thorin had been grim for most of their journey, weighted down by his sense of duty and his failure to get their quest more support, and only now, when he had finally let his guard down around the hobbit, could Bofur fully appreciate how tense and suspicious Thorin had been around the Halfling before. 

The contrast in Thorin’s demeanour was striking and it was subtly reflected by the rest of the group. Bilbo had had few friends among them before the events of the goblin cave, but now that he had been declared a full member of the company, they had all become much more relaxed around him. Bofur wondered if Bilbo realized that, or if he was oblivious of the change. One could never tell with him. 

“Will you sing for us?” Kíli asked the hobbit an hour later, putting on his best puppy dog eyes. “You sang for the elves already, so it would be only fair if you sang for us, too.”

Bilbo gave him a grin. 

“I’ll be happy to sing for you, if you ask me nicely enough.”

“You could recite some of your own poems, too,” Ori suggested helpfully. Bilbo grimaced. 

“No. Definitely not.”

“Why not?” Kíli pouted. “I’m sure they are good.” His expression slowly morphed into a leer. “Or are they too bawdy for an upscale company such as this?” 

Bilbo gave him a look of horror. 

“No, that’s not what I-” he stammered, clearly out of his depth. The dwarves started laughing uproariously and Bilbo’s face turned bright red. He reached for his drink and took a long swig. “There’s no need for me to write any of that, since we have plenty of stuff like that already in the Shire,” he muttered into his tankard.

“Oh? Do you?” their interest piqued, everyone’s gaze turned to the bright-faced hobbit. 

“Surely you wouldn’t deprive us of such fine art,” Bofur told him cheekily, nudging him with his elbow. 

“By Valar, you’re horrible,” Bilbo moaned, torn between mortification and laughter. He ran a hand over his face. “I’m not drunk enough for this.”

“That can be easily fixed,” Fíli assured him, his grin taking on a slightly predatory edge.

“I was afraid of that,” Bilbo murmured, but the crinkles in the corners of his eyes betrayed his amusement with the situation. 

“Here, this should help.” Bofur pushed a fresh tankard of mead in front of the hobbit. Bilbo raised it to his lips with a resigned look.

“So, what would you like to hear?”

_To be continued..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made a ton of notes when I did my hobbit re-read and one of the things that I noticed was that Bilbo doesn’t call the dwarves his "friends" until he’s lost in the goblin cave. He travelled with them for over two months before he even started to consider them his friends. If that doesn’t speak volumes about his reception within the group, then I don’t know what does.
> 
> Those of you who have read An Unexpected Proposal may notice some familiar elements in this story (Bilbo’s source of wealth being one of them). The reason for that is simple – this story was written first (most of it, at least) and Unexpected Proposal grew out of the notes I had for this after a random spark of inspiration. The two stories are completely different in most ways, but some elements of my head cannon have stayed the same. 
> 
> For an alternate (and more smutty) take on their night of drunkenness at Beorn’s, go read my other fic When the bear’s away. If you wish, you can use it to fill in the blank that this chapter has left. Otherwise I’m leaving those events entirely to your imagination :D
> 
> Thank you very much to everyone who has left comments and kudos on this story. Your ongoing support means a lot to me.  
> Chapter 5 will be up sometime around Wednesday next week.


	5. Dwalin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which two emotionally stunted dwarves try to talk about feelings and Bilbo reveals some unexpected skills.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter now has Fanart! You can see it [here](http://nazgullow.deviantart.com/art/Discovering-Mr-Baggins-Dwalin-425697924). Many thanks to the talented Nazgullow for the illustration!

The journey through the forest was miserable. The air was humid and stuffy, the gloom of the forest oppressive and the endless lines of trees gave no hope of coming to an end. Dwarves had never liked forests and tended to avoid them when they could, so being forced to spend weeks on end in Mirkwood was akin to torture for the majority of the company. Even the halfling, who normally seemed to enjoy trees and grass and green growing things of all kinds, looked depressed by all the trees, futilely craning his neck in search for a sliver of daylight. 

“God, I hate this forest,” Bilbo exclaimed one evening after Glóin’s third failed attempt to start a fire. Several heads turned to him in surprise.

“Aren’t you hobbits supposed to like trees and greenery?” Fíli asked with a frown. Bilbo grimaced. 

“Not when it looks like this,” he threw a dark look at the looming trees around them. “You know, all this gloom and heaviness reminds me of the Old Forest that stands on the eastern borders of the Shire. The trees there are half awake and aware of every visitor, and when you enter, you can feel them watching you. If you don’t pay attention, they start trying to trip you up, or make you lose your way by changing the paths.”

“Trees can do that?” Ori asked with alarm, looking around nervously. Bilbo shrugged.

“Some of them can move, yes. The forest near Shire is very old, almost as old as the land itself.” He glanced at the nearby trees. “I would guess that Mirkwood is nearly as old as that, but at least the trees here are asleep.”

“They are?” Kíli asked, valiantly trying to hide the uneasiness in his voice. Bilbo gave him a reassuring smile. 

“Yes, they are. Or at least they seem to be,” he added quietly. “The Old Forest in Buckland has this sort of sinister watchfulness when you enter it, but this one is quiet. A bit too quiet for my taste, and the eyes in the darkness make everything a hundred times worse.”

“You’ve seen them, too?” Ori asked, sounding almost relieved. Bilbo nodded.

“They are a little hard to miss, what with them being everywhere during the night,” Bofur chimed in.

“Oh, thank Mahal,” Ori breathed. “I thought I was going mad.” 

“You’re not the only one,” Fíli told him. “When I had my watch the other night, I saw these huge milky white eyes, staring at me from one of the branches on the other side of the path. They were the size of small saucers and looked almost like they belonged to...” he trailed off, not wanting to finish the sentence.

“A big spider?” Nori said, raising an eyebrow. “Yes, there are plenty of those in this forest. What do you think made all those webs? They watch us during the night sometimes. It gives me the creeps.”

“It’s not just spiders,” Glóin spoke up from his place on the ground, where he was still trying to light a fire. “There was something hiding in the bush when I went to take a leak the other night. I almost pissed on my shoes when it growled at me. I don’t know what it was, but it was big and had glowing red eyes.”

Seeing the rising uneasiness among the Companions, Thorin took a step forward, drawing their attention to himself.

“This path is protected,” he told them firmly. “I do not know whether it’s done by magic, or some other force, but it is protected. As long as we stay on the forest path and keep together, we should be able to pass through the forest unscathed. Pay no heed to the eyes in the darkness. They cannot harm you as long as you stay on the path.”

Thorin’s attempt at calming them down seemed to have worked on some of the dwarves, their frowns clearing up as they went back to whatever they had been doing before the interruption, but a few of the companions still looked unconvinced and kept watching the forest in suspicion. 

Though Dwalin hated to admit it, he too felt deeply unsettled by the forest. Normally he would scoff at the notion that a few pieces of wood could rattle his composure in any way, but this forest was just _creepy_. There was no other word for it. It was too quiet, too eerie and when the night fell, there were eyes in the darkness – dozens of eyes all around them, watching, waiting. It made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end and more than once he’d had to stop himself from reaching for his axe out of reflex.

Dwalin had spent the first few days in the forest by trying to talk himself out of his growing sense of paranoia – after all, what did he have to fear in the forest? In his life, he had survived numerous battles, slain foul beasts of all kinds and fought enemies of all shapes and sizes. What was a couple of trees, a few shadows and some spider webs compared to that? 

It quickly turned out that this place was worse than any enemy he had ever fought. At least those had had fleshy bodies that he could sink his blade into. This forest, however, was a faceless, shapeless menace that couldn’t be destroyed by any warrior or weapon. As days wore on, he caught himself looking more and more often over his shoulder, the heavy atmosphere driving his mind into a state of permanent alertness. His hand was never more than a hairsbreadth away from his axe, and he soon started to volunteer for most of the night watches, unable to sleep with all those eyes on him.

The lack of sleep certainly didn’t help his temper. Even under normal circumstances he could hardly be called amiable, but now he fell into a foul mood, barely speaking a word to anyone, and spent most of his time by watching the forest. 

One could never be too careful.

*****

When he had signed up for Thorin’s quest, Dwalin had had a pretty clear idea what was expected of him – protect the company, protect Thorin and his family, slay everything in their path and maybe help with killing the dragon, if no other option presented itself. Nowhere in his contract did it mention “teach a halfling how to use a sword”. He still couldn’t believe that Thorin had been serious when he’d asked him to do it.

Despite his earlier stunt with the Pale Orc, in his core the halfling was still the meek little creature who had nearly had a fit when he’d forgotten his handkerchief. He held the sword like a cooking spoon and it took all of Dwalin’s self control not to snatch it out of his hands before the hobbit accidentally cut himself. Dwalin had to admit that the halfling had pretty good footwork and that he was very nimble, but the idea that Dwalin could turn him into a warrior was laughable.

For one, the halfling looked deathly afraid of him. In the heat of battle, fuelled by fear and rage, he had been willing to face down the Pale Orc himself - now, however, with no danger to drive his courage Bilbo Baggins turned back into the gentle soul he was, reaching for his weapon with great reluctance. He handled the sword gingerly, like it was a snake that was going to bite him if he made a sudden movement. Normally Dwalin would be mildly amused by it, but with the wretched forest driving him half-mad he had precious little patience. 

“No! No, no. No!” he said for what felt like the hundredth time. “You are supposed to _deflect_ the blow to the side, not push against it.” 

The hobbit gave him a weary look.

“And how am I supposed to deflect a weapon that is twice as long as my entire body and three times as heavy? Even if I took the blow I will be crushed to a pulp.” He didn’t sound very happy with that idea.

Dwalin ran a hand over his face.

“You won’t get crushed if you do the move properly. Now do it again and put some force behind it. My grandmother has more strength than you.”

“Your grandmother sounds terrifying,” Bilbo mumbled, but obligingly raised his sword for another move.

They had been training for more than two weeks now and so far the hobbit wasn’t showing much improvement. It frustrated them both to no end and Dwalin privately though that it was only a matter of time before one of them snapped and killed the other in a fit of temper. 

Looking at the puny hobbit before him, Dwalin couldn’t help but wonder what he had done to deserve this. Had he gotten drunk and insulted the gods? Had he accidentally molested Thorin in his sleep? Both of those things had happened before, on separate occasions, and they had a tacit agreement to never speak about it. Maybe this was Thorin’s way to get silent revenge for that incident with the dress at his hundred-and-fiftieth birthday party. Thorin had never forgiven him for that.

Still, if nothing else, their training matches had one unforeseen benefit – they were providing plenty of entertainment for the rest of the company, who often came to watch and shout advice and encouragement at the flustered hobbit. Fíli and Kíli usually spent the training by sitting on the sidelines and watching the hobbit fumble around. Occasionally they helped Dwalin demonstrate a particular move, but mostly they just sat around and snickered, whisking the hobbit away when the training was done. 

On one such occasion Fíli walked over and slunk a companionable arm around the hobbit’s shoulders. 

“Come on, Bilbo. I’ll show you how to properly clean a sword.” 

Dwalin saw the hobbit shoot a quick glance in his direction before he leaned closer to Fíli.

“Didn’t you say he was _patient_?” Dwalin heard him mutter.

“He’s on edge. We all are.” 

Dwalin didn’t hear any more, because they walked out of earshot. He remained standing in the clearing, gritting his teeth. 

In the evening his frustration finally boiled over and he cornered the halfling after dinner.

“How on earth did you manage to survive this long without knowing how to fight?” Dwalin asked him without preamble. “Didn’t you say you used to travel? The lands of Eriador are not very hospitable to travellers, especially not hobbits.”

Bilbo blinked in surprise at the unexpected question.

“Well, when you put it like this, it does sound rather improbable. The truth is, I rarely wandered very far, and when I did, I usually travelled with a group of elves or dwarves going in the same direction. Safety was never much of a concern for me, really, and there was no need for weapons on my trips around the Shire – the Shire is very safe.”

“But how can you hobbits survive in the Shire without an army? The surrounding lands are full of wild beasts and wandering packs of orcs. How do you protect yourselves without any weapons?”

The hobbit fidgeted a bit, clearly uncomfortable with all the questions.

“We’re not very keen on weapons in the Shire,” he said slowly. “The land itself is peaceful and there’s no need to fight with anyone. The worst thing that can happen these days are quarrelling drunks in a pub. We have never had a problem with orcs. The goblins tried to invade once, long ago, but my great-great-great-great-uncle Bullroarer Took killed their king and drove them out. Nobody has tried to attack Shire ever since.”

“What about the beasts?” Dwalin asked, relentless. “Wolves and bears? You can’t tell me none of those ever cross your borders.” 

Their argument was starting to draw a lot of attention from their companions. Several of them had come closer, probably prepared to pull them apart if they came to blows, but Dwalin paid them no mind, focused as he was on getting answers. 

“The Dúnedain Rangers guard our borders,” Bilbo explained patiently. “They usually kill or scare away most of the beasts. They do a really good job of it too – nobody has seen a bear in the Shire for more than half a century. We only had a problem with the wolves once –during the Fell Winter thirty years ago, when the Brandywine River froze over and the hungry wolf packs came down from the lands around Fornost. I was but a lad then, barely in my tweens. We eventually managed to drive the wolves away, but a lot of hobbits died that year.”

“How did you get rid of the wolves? You just told me that you have no weapons.” Dwalin tried to imagine those tiny creatures fighting huge northern wolves, but couldn’t come up with any scenario that didn’t end in a hopeless annihilation of the halflings. 

The hobbit shot a nervous look around, probably realising that he was now the centre of attention of the entire Company. Bofur gave him an encouraging smile and Bilbo relaxed a bit, turning back to answer Dwalin’s question. 

“There are a few weapons scattered across the Shire, swords and bows and such, brought from their journeys by a few adventurous Tooks, but they are all considered _mathoms_ – something to put in a museum so the hobbit folk can look at it. Most of us just used what we had on hand – hoes, scythes, some of the lads had slingshots. You can imagine how that went.”

The dwarves grimaced. Kíli butted in, eyes alight with excitement.

“Did you fight too, Bilbo? What did you do?”

To everyone’s surprise, the hobbit smiled at the question. It wasn’t a pleasant smile.

“My mother had a very nice cutlery set. I only had to sharpen the knives a bit. They were very effective.”

“You threw knives at the wolves?” Ori asked with amazement, his eyes growing the size of saucers. Bilbo shrugged.

“Well, throwing stones at them was no good. Most hobbits are good at throwing stones. It’s a favourite pastime among the children, to hide in a bush and throw pebbles at various birds and passersby. Most hobbits can hit a sparrow sitting thirty feet away with a stone. But in this case, stones were useless, so we switched to knives. It was actually an idea of one of my Took cousins and it was much easier to kill the wolves from afar than to try and slit their throat with a scythe. Most of those who came close to the wolves didn’t survive it.”

The dwarves sat around with dumbstruck expressions, trying to imagine those fussy creatures slaughtering a pack of wolves. A few months ago they might have laughed at Bilbo’s story, but having seen him take down a warg and an orc, they no longer had any doubt that hobbits could be fierce when provoked. Oblivious to the stares, Bilbo continued. 

“After the idea with the knives, it was only a matter of time before we got rid of all the wolves. There are thousands of knives in the Shire. Those wolves didn’t stand a chance.”

A collective shudder ran through the assembled dwarves. Dwalin found himself warring between interest and irritation. Irritation won. 

“Do you mean to tell me that you have a potentially deadly skill at your disposal and you didn’t care to mention it until now? It wouldn’t save us from your sword lessons, but we could have found you some decent knives to carry.”

The hobbit fidgeted.

“I’m not very comfortable with weapons. And the episode with the wolves happened thirty years ago. I have almost forgotten about it, because it’s not a memory I revisit often.”

Dwalin gave him a sharp look.

“Can you still throw those knives?”

Bilbo nodded with some reluctance. 

“I suppose so. I haven’t tried it since then, but it’s not much different than throwing a stone and I can throw those well enough.”

“That little sword of yours is too big for you to throw and I don’t have any small knives on me, but Nori should have _plenty_ , don’t you, Nori?” He turned to the brown haired dwarf with a smirk and enjoyed the look of irritation that passed over his face at the insinuation. “Be a good lad and lend master Baggins some of your knives.”

 _That’s what he gets for stealing from me_ , Dwalin thought with satisfaction as Nori reached for his backpack, drawing out a few of his throwing knives with some reluctance. _Serves him right, that shifty-eyed weasel._

Bilbo took the offered knives, looking unsure.

“Where should I throw? There are no wolves around.”

Dwalin chuckled.

“And be mighty glad for that. A tree will do. Or, if you’re feeling adventurous, you could try shooting down one of those wretched squirrels.”

The hobbit turned to survey the trees, eyes narrowed in concentration. He took one of the knives into his right hand and just held it for a bit, feeling out its weight. The first knife flew slowly and hit the tree with its dull side, falling down into the dead leaves below. The second one was a bit better – it hit the tree right in the centre of the trunk and stayed there. By the time he reached for the fourth knife Bilbo’s face smoothed out and he threw the knife with confidence, the weapon slotting neatly into the tree below the previous two.

He paused when he took the fifth knife, his eyes scanning the branches around them. They barely saw him move. The knife left Bilbo’s hand in a flash and embedded itself deep in the bark of the moss-covered tree twenty feet away, pinning a large black spider to the bark. The dwarves gaped at the Halfling like he’d grown a second head. Fíli went to retrieve the knives and came running back, excited. He showed them the dead spider, which was the size of a hand.

“Look, the knife went straight through the middle. The spider didn’t know what hit him.”

Dislodging the spider, he handed the knife back to Bilbo along with the rest.

“Impressive,” whistled Bofur. 

Dwalin was looking at the halfling with newfound interest. 

“I suppose we will have to get you some knives. It would be a shame for a skill like that to remain unused. I’m sure Nori won’t mind if you borrow his knives, will you, Nori?” he shot a look at the spiky-haired dwarf, who scowled at him, but didn’t say anything. He turned back to Bilbo. “You can buy your own set of knives in Laketown.”

“I could teach him to use a bow,” Kíli offered, looking excited. “With aim like that, he could become a pretty good archer.”

“We still have the bows from Beorn, do we not?” Thorin said. “Give one to Mr Baggins, he can start learning tomorrow.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Bilbo tried to protest, but Thorin ploughed on.

“You should be able to wield as many different weapons as possible.”

Bilbo sighed. 

“No, I meant that it won’t be necessary because I already know how to shoot from a bow.” 

“You do?” Thorin looked incredulous. Bilbo shrugged.

“I used to go hunting with my cousins when I was younger. I was never terribly good at it, though.”

“Never mind, I can help you train,” Kíli offered, excited. “Oh, this will be so much fun.”

*****

Over the years, Dwalin had imagined his death many times. An early death was almost certain in his line of work - the only question was _how_. He had always thought that he would die in battle, standing on a pile of orc bodies that he had killed, an axe in his hand and a smile on his face – a glorious death worthy of songs. He had never guessed that his death would come in the form of slow suffocation, wrapped in a sticky cocoon of webs to become a dinner for Mirkwood spiders.

He remembered how they had scoffed at Radagast’s words about giant spiders, dismissing his tale as a product of too much weed and mushrooms. He also remembered Gandalf and Beorn’s numerous warnings _not to leave the path_. He wondered what would have happened with the dragon if they had managed to make the journey. Would it have been a similar disaster? They had also been warned about him, but they didn’t listen, pride and gold-lust driving them forward. Now they had finally paid the price for their arrogance.

The spider poison was pure evil – it paralyzed muscles, making them stiff and unmoving, but his brain stayed intact, leaving him fully awake so that he could better appreciate the horror of being eaten alive. It was maddening and there was no way to escape. In a desperate attempt not to go completely crazy, Dwalin turned his thoughts in a different direction, deliberately choosing to ignore the situation for the moment.

Naturally, his mind turned to Thorin first. Dwalin wondered how his closest friend was faring – it must have been unbearable for Thorin, a man of action and heroic deeds, to be reduced to spider food. The indignity must have been driving him mad. He wondered about the others, too, how they were coping. Maybe some of them had suffocated already. It would be certainly a more merciful fate than what awaited them.

Aware that his thoughts were turning morbid again, Dwalin tried to think of something else. The hobbit. Had he been caught with the rest of them, or did he have the presence of mind to slip away, as he had done with the goblins? If he had, Dwalin could only congratulate him. There was no need for all of them to die here.

Dwalin had been highly doubtful about the hobbit for a long time, brushing away Balin’s praise of Bilbo’s cleverness and generosity. The halflings he had met on his travels had always been a queer bunch, mistrustful of dwarves and unwilling to think of anything but their own interests. Dwalin found it highly unlikely that this particular halfling would be willing to follow them on a dangerous quest purely out of the goodness of his heart. 

Balin seemed to think otherwise, claiming that the hobbit had no need for gold, but Dwalin privately thought his brother’s mind was clouded by his fondness of the halfling. One fourteenth of the hoard was an enormous sum and Dwalin had never met anyone, dwarf, human or elf, who had been able to resist the call of wealth. Still, if the halfling was motivated by the dragon gold, Dwalin couldn’t blame him – he wouldn’t be the first member of the company who had joined them purely out of greed.

Dwalin himself had been pulled along on the quest by Thorin and Balin, their lifelong ties making him unable to deny their request when they had asked him for help. It had been Thorin’s idea to reclaim back his throne in Erebor and restore the mountain to its former glory, but Dwalin had no doubt that Balin had helped feed it – his brother had always liked reminiscing about the good old days. 

Unlike those two, Dwalin barely remembered Erebor. He had been a small boy when the dragon attacked and his memories of the mountain kingdom were hazy at best. He still occasionally woke up with the smell of dragon fire in his throat, but those dreams were rare and usually dissipated before he could make sense of them. Having spent most of his life as a mercenary, he had plenty of other, fresher horrors to dream about, so the dragon only occupied a minuscule place in his sleeping mind. Still, dragon or not, he would have liked to see Erebor again.

Speaking of horrors...all those thoughts of Thorin and the hobbit inevitably brought to mind memories of the conversation he had had with Thorin at Beorn’s house – a conversation he had been desperately trying to forget ever since: 

Thorin had come to him after breakfast, looking rather uncomfortable.

“Come for a walk with me,” he said quietly. “There’s something I want to talk about.” 

Dwalin followed him out of the house at a sedate pace, trying to figure out what Thorin could possibly want to discuss that required such secrecy.

“I have a favour to ask,” Thorin began once they were far enough from the house to avoid being overheard. Dwalin’s brain instantly went on alert. Thorin rarely asked for favours and when he did, it was usually something Dwalin wasn’t very keen on doing. The simple fact that Thorin had posed his question as a polite request instead of an order suggested that he wouldn’t like it. He wasn’t wrong in his guess. 

“I want you to teach the hobbit how to fight,” Thorin continued. “He needs to learn how to use a sword.”

“No.” Dwalin’s response was instant. “No way in hell. Ask Fíli or Kíli. They are friends with him and they know enough about fighting. I’m sure they would love to teach him.” Thorin’s face pulled into a scowl at the mention of Kíli.

“No,” Thorin said. “They would go too easy on him. I can’t trust them to do the job properly.”

Although Thorin was trying to sound casual about his request, there was something off about his tone. His voice sounded strange and it took Dwalin a moment to figure out what the undertone was. Fear. 

“Thorin what is going on?” Dwalin asked, feeling apprehensive. He had never known Thorin to be afraid of anything.

“I simply want him to survive this,” Thorin said, but he didn’t meet Dwalin’s eyes.

“Bullshit,” Dwalin replied. “There has to be more to this than what you’re telling me. You wouldn’t do this just for anyone. You don’t give a toss about the rest of the Company. Why is he any different?” Thorin opened his mouth to answer, but Dwalin cut him off before he could say anything. “And don’t try to feed me any crap about self-defence or him being a member of the Company now. I can always tell when you try to lie to me.”

Thorin’s scowl deepened, but he didn’t deny that he had been intending to do just that. Dwalin folded his arms. 

“You know, even if I did agree to teach him, it wouldn’t make much of a difference for him in the end. If we end up facing the dragon, we will all die anyway. There was never a big chance of us surviving this whole thing.” 

“Any chance is better than nothing,” Thorin murmured. He took a while to ponder his answer, obviously reluctant to share the real source of his worry. When he finally looked up, Dwalin’s breath caught at the urgency he saw in his friend’s eyes. “Dwalin, I _need_ him to survive this.”

Oh. _Oh._

Something in Dwalin’s brain clicked and everything suddenly made sense. It was the sort of revelation that made him wish that he had never figured it out, but now that he knew he couldn’t stop thinking about it. 

“No,” Dwalin breathed in horrified disbelief. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

Thorin shook his head, lips pursed, face deadly serious. A horrible sense of certainty settled over Dwalin. He took a few steps back and sat down heavily on a tree stump, trying to process the information. 

“Well, shit,” he breathed, too overwhelmed to offer a more coherent answer.

Everything suddenly made so much sense – Thorin’s strange behaviour ever since that night in the Shire, his irritability, his frequent mood swings. It all added up and Dwalin mentally cursed himself that he hadn’t figured it out before. He had suspected of course, but a part of him had always hoped that he had been reading Thorin’s actions wrong. Now he knew that he had been right all along. 

Thorin’s behaviour around the hobbit had been highly peculiar from the start. At first Dwalin had thought that it was just Thorin’s own distrust of strangers that was making him behave that way – in public Thorin had treated the halfling with barely contained disdain and yet he had often watched him when the hobbit wasn’t paying attention. Dwalin had dismissed it as paranoia until Rivendell, where things had taken turn for the truly bizarre. 

Asking _Ori_ of all people to spy on the hobbit for him, creeping in the shadows, glaring at the elves that spoke to him – Thorin had seemed torn between scorn and obsession that Dwalin couldn’t wrap his head around. Leaving the elves had only made everything worse, since he no longer had the excuse that he had to watch Bilbo because he could be betraying their quest to the elves. 

The most baffling thing of all had been that hug on Carrock. Thorin was a very private person who had never been fond of public displays of affection. In all the years Dwalin had known Thorin (and century and a half was long enough to know someone well), he could count on his fingers the number of times Thorin had embraced someone in public - and those had always been members of family. Dwalin had never seen Thorin willingly touch someone not belonging to his small group of friends. 

The others had taken the hug as a sign of Thorin accepting the hobbit as a full member of the company, but Dwalin knew better - it had been Thorin’s way of staking a claim on the hobbit without being too obvious about it.

Dwalin had avoided thinking about this particular direction for a very long time, opting for denial, but he could hardly ignore the evidence when all the signs were right there in front of his eyes. All the attention focused on Bilbo, the worry, the possessiveness, the jealousy when Bilbo preferred to spend his free time with Ori and Bofur – it all added up, plus now he had a confession from Thorin himself. There was no running from the truth now.

Before he could think better of it, he found himself blurting out: _“The Halfling? Really?”_

Thorin, who had walked to the edge of the meadow while Dwalin had been lost in thought, whirled around.

“Do you think I’m happy about this?” he asked sharply. “Do you think I was ecstatic when he opened that door and I found out that the Fates have decided to give me a green grocer for a mate? A dainty little hobbit, who has never held a weapon in his hand and who almost cried when ran out of handkerchiefs?”

“Thorin...” Dwalin tried to butt in, but the dark-haired dwarf continued, ignoring him. It looked like now that the secret was finally out, he needed to vent his frustration. Dwalin closed his mouth and sat back down, letting Thorin fume on his own.

“What do you want to hear? That I can’t stop thinking about him? That I’m drawn to him every waking minute, every second, despite all rational thought and my own distaste? What would you say to that?” He looked at Dwalin in challenge. “That I should know better than to be obsessed with someone who is both horribly unsuited to my way of life and completely uninterested in me? Believe me, _I know_.” He drew himself to his full height, as if he was preparing for a fight. Dwalin sighed.

“No, I wasn’t going to say that.” He gave Thorin a curious look. “Is it really so horrible?”

Thorin ran a hand through his hair, deflating a little at the lack of opposition.

“No, but it is most inconvenient. I cannot focus on the quest properly if I’m constantly preoccupied with thoughts of him. I should be focusing on my duty towards my people and the success of our quest, but instead I am aware of his every move and have to battle jealousy that flares up anytime someone as much as speaks to him. I am overwhelmed by a mindless need to take, to possess and protect and it makes me feel like a brainless ogre.” He shook his head. “I can’t understand why anyone saw this as an inspiration for poetry. It’s more akin to torture in my eyes.”

Dwalin gave him a crooked smile.

“Listening to you makes me almost glad that I never met mine. For all I know, I could have ended up with an elf.”

Thorin gave him a weak glare.

“This is hardly better. He avoids me like plague.”

“At least he saved your life,” Dwalin pointed out. 

Thorin sighed. “So he did.” 

Seeing his friend’s unhappy face, Dwalin could feel his resolve crumbling. He resisted for another minute before he gave in with a sigh.

“All right, I will teach your Halfling, if you insist, but I’m not happy about it.” 

Thorin looked up in relief. 

“I didn’t expect you to be.” He walked over and put a hand on Dwalin’s shoulder, squeezing once in gratitude before he let go. “Thank you for doing this for me. I would teach him myself, but...” he trailed off, looking a bit embarrassed. Dwalin tried to find the words to respond to that, but found none. In the end he settled for a nod. Thorin nodded back.

“I will go and tell him about my decision.”

Dwalin couldn’t have kept the smirk off his face even if he’d tried.

“I’m sure he will be thrilled.” 

Thorin’s lips pulled into an amused smirk of his own.

“If it’s any consolation, he will probably hate those lessons as much as you will.” He started walking back towards Beorn’s house. Before he could disappear between the bushes, Dwalin called after him:

“I hope that you know what you’re doing.”

Thorin shot him a look over his shoulder.

“So do I, Dwalin. So do I.” 

And so had ended the most awkward conversation of his life. Dwalin still couldn’t quite believe that it had really happened. To see Thorin so unravelled over a _hobbit_ of all people had been...disconcerting, to say at least. While Dwalin didn’t quite understand Thorin’s choice of partner, he couldn’t begrudge him for it. Dwarven hearts were often rule by the hand of Fate and once it decided to strike, there was no fighting against it.

Despite his own reservations (based mostly on the abysmal way the hobbit handled his tiny sword), Dwalin had to admit the hobbit had some potential. There were few who would willingly place themselves right in front of the great white warg, risking nearly certain death for someone who barely tolerated them. To this day, Dwalin still blamed himself for not getting up from that hanging tree fast enough. If it weren’t for the hobbit’s bravery, Thorin would be dead. 

And so would they, Dwalin though suddenly as he heard Bilbo’s voice somewhere below him. Despite all odds the hobbit had managed to find them and was now hard at work to free them from the spider webs. Listening to the groans of the newly-freed Companions around him, Dwalin smiled. 

Thorin had chosen well.

_To be continued..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you go – your typical One Destined Soulmate subplot, with a twist. I always wondered why none of the characters in the stories I read ever put up a fight against having all their thoughts scrambled by Fate/crazy chemistry of Love at First Sight. The soulmate stories almost always feature a near-instant love, where the people are simply perfect for each other without any greater doubts or questions. So it got me thinking - what if they fell in love with someone truly horrible or someone they couldn’t respect as a partner? Or what if one of them simply wasn’t interested in a relationship? Since I have rarely seen this particular theme used in a romance (I haven’t read much fanfiction these past two years), I have decided to tackle it myself.
> 
> I’m sorry for the slight delay in posting – this chapter was really hard to write. I wrote three different versions of it and made countless edits before I was finally satisfied with the work. The rest of the story is mostly written, but Dwalin proved himself to be most uncooperative :) Thank you everyone who has left comments and kudos on this! You support gives me the energy to plod my way through the endless hours of editing. 
> 
> The next chapter will be posted on Saturday, December 7.


	6. Nori

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As far as prisons went, Nori had seen worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter now has Fanart! You can see it [here](http://nazgullow.deviantart.com/art/Discovering-Mr-Baggins-Nori-425748857). Many thanks to the talented Nazgullow for the illustration!

In his life, Nori had seen his fair share of prison cells. As far as prisons went, the elven dungeon was one of the better ones. The cells were a nice size, airy, the food wasn’t terrible and got brought at regular intervals and nobody tortured him. So far, he was quite satisfied with his accommodations, especially since the alternative was starving to death in the forest. 

Still, comfortable or not, as soon as the guards left him alone after he had eaten his first meal in days, he used the opportunity to examine the cell from top to bottom, looking for any crack or weakness that could be exploited and used for an escape. He was a little disappointed to find nothing that he could use, but he knew better than to let his spirits sink. There was sure to be a weak spot somewhere – no prison was perfect and every lock could be opened with the right means.

Even though there was no way to see outside, Nori could make a guess at the time he had spent in the cell by counting the passing of the guards. By his rough estimate they had been caught six days ago. In all that time nobody had tried to force him to talk about their quest. Elves were much too soft of heart to ever think about using torture and their feeble attempts at interrogation were laughable at best. Silent treatment had never worked on Nori, and even though the solitary confinement had been a smart move on their side, he wasn’t terribly concerned. Compared to his four-month stay in the rotten dungeons of Gundabad, this was a pleasant holiday. 

Nori knew that most of the other dwarfs wouldn’t talk about their quest, being much too stubborn to betray anything, but he was a bit worried about Ori. His younger brother had always been a gentle soul and he might think about telling the elves, if he thought that it would help his friends. It was the thought of Ori that made Nori almost break out of the cell. He had been toying with the idea for days now – ever since he had discovered how uncomplicated the elvish locks were. Unlocking the door would be a simple matter, especially since he still had his lock-picking kit tucked deep in his undershirt. 

Ultimately though, he decided to stay in his cell. If he broke out, he would have no idea which way to go and would probably get caught before he could make any sense of the endless corridors of the elven dungeon. And, even if he did find any of his companions, he had no plan of escape, so it was no use blowing his cover for a stunt that was guaranteed to put him back in a cell. Essentially, he was left a sitting duck and he didn’t like it in the slightest, but there wasn’t much he could do about it.

As if summoned by a prayer, a familiar voice suddenly sounded at the door.

“Nori? Is that you?”

Nori raised his head from his contemplation, staring at the door in disbelief. 

“Mr Baggins?”

“Nori!” the voice exclaimed and suddenly the hobbit appeared out of thin air, looking around cautiously before he stepped closer to the bars. “I’m so glad I found you. They have you locked all over the place. It took me several days to find the others and I still don’t know where Dwalin, Glóin and Thorin are, but I can tell you that both of your brothers are fine.”

“Thank Mahal.” Nori quickly crossed the cell to be able to speak more privately. “Have you spoken to them?”

Bilbo nodded.

“Yes, I have spoken to them both. Ori seems a bit lonely, but at least he still has his sewing kit. The last time I saw him, he was embroidering a handkerchief. I could take him a message from you, if you wish. He is not far from here.”

“Yes, that would be nice of you,” Nori told him. He then paused, remembering what he’d just heard. “Wait, did you just say that they have Thorin here as well?”

“Well, I don’t know for certain, but some of the guards have been talking about another dwarf, held deep in the dungeons. They caught him the day before they got you. I haven’t been able to visit him yet, because I was too busy searching for the rest of you, but I should be able to see him in a day or two.”

“Good.” Nori’s mood improved at the news. “I assume you are using your magic ring to walk around unnoticed?”

“Yes. It’s very effective,” Bilbo said. “I spent several hours standing behind the king’s chair in the throne room the other day and nobody noticed a thing. I have even managed to get out through the gate twice, but there is no way for all of us to escape that way. The main gate is locked by magic and the other entrances are all heavily guarded. I will continue looking for another way out, but so far I have found no way that would allow all of us to leave the palace without raising an alarm. It looks pretty bleak, if you ask me.”

Nori reached a hand through the bars to lightly clasp his shoulder. 

“Our biggest advantage is that you are free and the elves don’t know about your presence. I am sure one of us will be able to think of something. I have been able to escape from places far worse than this, believe me. Every fortress has a weakness - one just has to find it.”

A sudden idea came to him.

“Would you be able to draw me a floor plan of the palace? How the rooms are spaced, where are our other companions, what is the location of the exits?”

The hobbit looked thoughtful.

“Hm, I suppose I could do that. There is bound to be some parchment lying around somewhere and the drawing won’t be that different from making a map. I’m still not sure where all the rooms are, but give me a few more days and I should be able to put it together.”

“Splendid.” Nori gave him a smile, feeling more hopeful than he had in weeks. “When you have the map, bring it to me, and I can help you come up with something. You’d better find Thorin first though, before we do anything else - we cannot put together a plan without his knowledge.” He reached inside his jacket and pulled out an old, tattered piece of cloth. “Please take this to Ori and tell him to stay calm. Hopefully we should be able to get out of here in a few days’ time.”

The hobbit took the cloth and tucked it safely away.

“I should leave now. The evening guard will be passing through here soon. I’ll go find the rest and come to you when I have some news.”

He took two steps back and disappeared. The air barely moved when he started sneaking away and Nori couldn’t help but admire the skill. The hobbit moved without making any sound and if Nori hadn’t specifically known that someone was standing in front of him, he never would have guessed. Grudgingly, he had to admit that Gandalf’s choice of their fourteenth Companion had been apt. Mr Baggins may not have been a burglar when they had started, but he was one now. Nori no longer felt worried about putting their fate in the Bilbo’s hands.

*****

It was two days before Bilbo appeared again. When he did, he looked harried and tired, darting nervous glances down the corridor. Nori was at the door in a flash.

“I found Thorin,” the hobbit said. “They are holding him in the lowest dungeon, but the security isn’t very tight. He hasn’t told them who he is, so they are leaving him mostly alone. He told me to tell you all that no mention of our quest should be made under any circumstances. He doesn’t have any idea how to get out of here, but was very glad to hear that you are all safe.”

Nori smiled. 

“That is good news. Have you found out anything else?”

Bilbo nodded.

“The elven king will be having a grand feast next week to celebrate the harvest. All of the court is invited, which means that the security down here should be almost non-existent. It would be the ideal time to escape, if we only had a way. I haven’t been able to find any other entrance, but I have the map for you.” He reached into his jacket and drew out a square of folded parchment. “It’s crude at best, and some of the rooms have the wrong proportions, but other than that it should be fairly accurate. It’s difficult to guess the size of the palace because there are so many rooms. I hope you will be able to make something of it.”

Nori took the map, his eyes lighting up. Now _this_ was something he could work with. He looked up at Bilbo.

“The guards won’t pass through here for at least another two hours. Why don’t you rest for a bit while I read the map? I will let you know if I have any questions.” 

The hobbit gave him a grateful look and sat down on the ground, his back to the cell door. Even in the warm light from the torches, he looked pale and exhausted. Nori knew all too well how it was to spend days sneaking around in enemy territory, unable to sleep for fear of being discovered. He didn’t envy Bilbo his position in the slightest. He himself may be in the cell, but at least he was fed and comfortable. The hobbit’s freedom was bought out by constant danger and paranoia. Hardly a good trade.

Nori raised the map closer to the torchlight. The drawing was surprisingly good. There were several floors, with the rooms all neatly labelled. Bilbo had depicted both the dungeon cells and the living quarters of the Elvenking, giving the map a good sense of scope. All the cells of their friends were marked as well and Nori could slowly feel the image of the place taking shape in his mind. 

He had only had brief glimpses of the corridors when the elves led them to their cells, but with the map in his hand it was easy to visualize the layout of the palace. Ori may be the one with the talent for drawing, but Nori had always been good at spatial imagination. It had helped him more than once during his spying missions, when he’d been lost in a maze of corridors in the middle of enemy territory. This situation was no different and he could already feel the wheels in his brain turning, calculating distances and the routes of the guards.

Looking down at the hobbit, he saw that Bilbo had fallen asleep. He sat slumped on the floor, his head resting back against the door. His left hand kept twitching around the ring, the other lay on the hilt of his little sword. Judging from his breathing, his sleep wasn’t very deep and the slightest noise would probably bring him back to full alertness. 

Nori carefully put away the map and stepped closer to the door, keeping watch over the sleeping halfling. It was the least he could do for his friend. For indeed a friend he was. Nori had never shared Dwalin’s open distrust of the hobbit, but he wasn’t as quick to trust him as Ori or Balin, who had accepted Bilbo into their hearts without reservations. Unlike them Nori had remained cautious, keeping his distance, observing, judging. 

Over the course of the journey Bilbo had proved himself to be a loyal companion and a good friend. Despite his discomfort with weapons and his distaste for violence he had never abandoned them in a time of need. 

Bilbo’s stunt with the spiders was still fresh in Nori’s mind. Nori had no idea if it had been bravery, foolishness or desperation that had driven the hobbit to face down several dozen huge spiders, but it had been an impressive sight, nonetheless.

They had all been weakened by the poison, weaponless and barely able to walk, much less help him in the battle, yet Bilbo had stood there, unflinchingly facing down a wall of enemies to give his friends time to escape. They had tried to rally around him and help him, but he had waved them away, urging them to run. They could only watch helplessly as he threw himself into the fray, heedless of the danger, slaying spider after spider.

Nori had only seen one other like that, long ago. Balin and Dwalin hadn’t been the only ones who had answered Thorin’s call before the gates of Moria - Nori had been there as well. He’d been still a young lad, barely old enough to hold a weapon, but he had insisted on joining his father and brother on the battlefield. Back then he had helped Thorin drive the orcs back into the mountain and he had happily followed Thorin’s lead ever since. He knew that he wasn’t the only one who had drawn that parallel in his head – Dwalin in particular had looked at the hobbit with a great amount of respect when the battle with the spiders was over.

Looking back at that moment, he couldn’t help but wonder how the distribution of power in the Company would change once they managed to escape from the prison. It was clear that many of the companions had begun to look to Bilbo for guidance in Gandalf’s absence - the hobbit’s cleverness and pragmatic nature serving as a nice counterbalance to Thorin’s more impulsive decision making. Nori wouldn’t be the slightest bit surprised if some of them even started to prefer the hobbit’s prudent approach over Thorin’s rashness. 

Nori himself would certainly appreciate having a sound plan before they went charging into the dragon’s lair. While he didn’t know the king well enough to guess his thoughts, he was pretty sure that Thorin had no plans concerning the dragon. From the snippets of conversation he had overheard, he knew that Balin wasn’t particularly pleased about that, either. Nori had no idea what the others thought, but he knew that many of them had counted on the wizard killing the dragon. To their great displeasure Gandalf had taken off at the edge of the forest, riding merrily into the sunset, and left them to their own devices. 

Without the wizard their chances of slaying the dragon were almost nonexistent, making their quest more of a suicide mission than a triumphant homecoming. After all, what could thirteen dwarfs do that an army hadn’t been able to? And yet Thorin seemed strangely unperturbed. Did he have that much confidence in the hobbit’s abilities, or was he just very good at denial? Nori didn’t know, but he wasn’t very impressed with Thorin’s attitude.

The hobbit himself seemed to be completely oblivious to the potential power-shift he had put in motion with his actions. Bilbo’s only thought when he had acted had been to protect his friends. He claimed that he didn’t desire power and Nori believed him, but all his protests might be useless when the group decided that he should be the one to lead them, as had already happened once and might very well happen again.

Despite his reluctance Bilbo had proven himself a fairly capable leader – far better than any of them had expected. The cautious strategist who was now sleeping in a warrior pose at Nori’s feet was a far cry from the “funny little fellow bobbing on the mat”, as Glóin had aptly described the hobbit when they had first met him. 

However, while his companions had been pleased with Bilbo’s transformation into an honorary dwarf, Nori hadn’t been as quick to share their enthusiasm. Yes, Bilbo had fit in nicely with their group, but at what price? Nori found himself missing some of the innocent naiveté of the creature who had been unable to leave his home without a pocket handkerchief. While the new absence of bumbliness was certainly useful for their quest, Nori couldn’t help but feel that their adventure was taking its toll on the hobbit.

He was brought out of his thoughts by a sound of approaching footsteps.

“Bilbo!” he hissed urgently, kicking the door with his foot.

The hobbit woke up instantly, eyes wide and searching. He quickly scrambled to his feet, putting on the ring.

“I’ll come back after the dinner and you can tell me if you have any ideas about the map.” The disembodied voice was still unsettling, even when Nori knew that Bilbo was there. 

Nori nodded and went to sit back on the bed, tucking the map under his shirt. There had to be a way out of here.

*****

When the hobbit appeared next, his shoulders were slumped and his face grey with fatigue.

“Ori and Dori send their regards,” Bilbo said as a means of greeting. He leaned heavily against the wall next to the door to Nori’s cell and his head tipped forward, his eyes trying to fall shut against his will. Nori watched him struggle against fatigue for a moment before he took pity on him.

“Are you all right, Mr Baggins?”

It took Bilbo a few seconds to focus on the question. 

“No, I don’t think I am,” he finally answered with heart-breaking honesty. “We’ve been here for two weeks already and I have barely had a wink of sleep. I feel like I’m going to fall over any minute now. I can barely see straight, much less think of a cunning escape plan in his state.”

He gave Nori a look of bone-deep weariness. It was a testament to his poor condition that he was willing to confide such a thing to Nori of all people. It took Nori less than a heartbeat to decide.

“Do you trust me?” he asked the hobbit. To Bilbo’s credit the hobbit barely hesitated before he gave his answer.

“Yes.” 

Nori gave him a nod and used the pretence of looking for his lockpicks to hide his reaction to the statement. In all his life, he could count the number of people who had been willing to trust him on one hand. To receive such trust without any caveats or conditions was a rare thing indeed for Nori. He found that he didn’t quite know how to react to Bilbo’s gesture of trust. 

It only took a minute to pop open the lock in the door. 

“Come in,” Nori told the hobbit, who was staring at the open door in undisguised bafflement. When Bilbo didn’t move, Nori sighed. “It’s not a trick, I promise. I just thought you might like to get some sleep.” 

“Oh,” Bilbo said, his frown clearing up. “Will you be able to lock it again behind me? It wouldn’t do for the elves to find out about this.”

Nori gave him a look.

“I wouldn’t have opened it if I didn’t know how to lock it again.”

Shooting one last look between Nori’s face and the door he was holding open, Bilbo peeled himself from the wall and slipped inside the cell. He tensed a bit when Nori locked the door again behind them but other than that he didn’t react. Nori pointed towards the cot in the corner.

“Get some sleep. I’ll keep watch and wake you up if needed.”

Bilbo only hesitated for a second, his fatigue winning over any objections he might have about sharing a cell with a thief. He sat down heavily on the bed and didn’t waste any time getting comfortable – he simply slumped down onto his side and curled into a ball facing the door.

“You might want to be invisible for this,” Nori reminded him gently. 

Without opening his eyes, Bilbo reached into his pocket and drew out a small golden circle, slipping it on his finger in a well-practiced movement. The hobbit disappeared at once and only the faint sound of his breathing gave any hint that there might be another occupant in the cell.

Nori crossed the room and sat down on the floor in the opposite corner, where he had a good view of both the door and the bed. Wiggling a little to get into a comfortable position, Nori leaned his head back against the wall and settled down for his watch.

He had a long night ahead of him.

*****

Bilbo woke up shortly after dawn. If he hadn’t been paying attention, Nori would have hardly noticed – the only signs of Bilbo’s waking up had been a slight hitch of breath and a quiet rustle of fabric. Nori opened his mouth to greet him when he heard the distant sound of footsteps that signalised the arrival of his breakfast.

He scrambled to his feet as quickly as he could, trying to ignore the woodenness of his legs that were protesting against the movement after so many hours of sitting in one pose, and tiptoed over to the cot, where he sat down at the edge to pretend that he had only just woken up. The hobbit scuttled over a bit to make room for him, but other than that he didn’t make a sound.

Sure enough, less than a minute later came a loud knock on the door.

“Breakfast!” the warden announced. 

Nori stood up slowly and shuffled to the door at a snail’s pace, because he knew that it annoyed the elves when he kept them waiting. Toying with the guards was the only source of amusement he had in this hellhole, so he baited them as often as he could, just for the entertainment. 

The elf was shifting impatiently by the time he arrived to the door.

“Here’s your breakfast,” he said, stuffing the bread bun and a piece of cheese through the bars. Nori handed him back the empty bowl from last night’s dinner and had to suppress a grin when his grip on it slipped up a bit and the small puddle of sauce on the bottom dribbled down onto the sleeve of the elf’s tunic. The elf shot him an annoyed look, but didn’t comment on it. _Pity_ , though Nori. This one must have been warned about Nori’s penchant for disruptive behaviour. How boring.

“Still not willing to talk, dwarf?” the warden asked. Nori gave him a mocking smile. 

“No.”

The elf huffed.

“Very well, have it your way. You will talk eventually, even if we have to hold you here for a hundred years. Unlike you, _we_ have all the time in the world.” With that last parting shot the elf glided away, smirking in an insufferably smug way that made Nori want to punch his stupid face. 

Nori waited by the door until he was sure that the elf was gone and then made his way back to the bed where the hobbit sat, blinking sleepiness out of his eyes. He had taken off his ring after the elf had left, and was now studying the cell with interest, his eyes flitting between Nori and the door.

“Are you all right?” Nori asked, sitting down next to the hobbit. Bilbo gave him a small smile.

“I’m feeling much better, thank you. I really needed the sleep. These last few days have been a bit of a blur to me.” He paused, shooting a nervous look at the door. “Should we even be talking?” he asked in a whisper.

“I think it’s safe now,” Nori said. “The elves always bring me breakfast and then nobody passes this way for at least four hours. We should be fine.”

“Good.”

They sat in silence for a moment, neither of them knowing what to say. 

“I didn’t make any noise during the night, did I?” the hobbit asked finally.

Nori shook his head.

“No, you’re a very quiet sleeper. I barely knew you were here.”

“You didn’t sleep?” Bilbo frowned. Nori waved his concern away.

“I can sleep whenever I want. It’s the one thing that I’m certainly not lacking around here.” His gaze slid from his bread bun to the hobbit who was sitting next to him empty handed. “Here,” he broke the bread in half, handing a piece to Bilbo. “You should eat something before you leave.”

“But what about you-?” Bilbo began, but Nori cut him off.

“Don’t worry about me. The elves give me plenty of food. You on the other hand look like you could definitely use a bite.”

Bilbo fidgeted for a moment longer before he took the bread with a muttered “thank you”. 

“I have to be careful about what I steal. If I took too much, they would get suspicious.” He bit into the cheese with enthusiasm, savouring the taste. His eyes fell on the piece of bread and he smiled suddenly, looking back up at Nori. “You know, Ori tries to feed me, too, every time I pass by his door. He always has a piece of bread or an apple saved for me and refuses to let me leave until I eat it.”

Nori smiled fondly. 

“That sounds just like him. He’s always been generous like that.” He gave the hobbit a look. “You know, he likes you a lot. I think it’s because you’re one of the few people who take him seriously.”

“He’s one of the few people who aren’t trying to change me into something I’m not,” Bilbo said quietly. “Everyone else would like to turn me into a thief, or a warrior or a hero, but not Ori. He seems content to simply be my friend and doesn’t demand that I change into something better, someone more dwarvish.” He looked down on his hands, which were toying with a piece of bread crust. “I haven’t told him this, but I really appreciate it.”

Nori nodded in understanding, but didn’t say anything to that. Privately he was glad that Ori had a friend like this. His younger brother had always had trouble being taken seriously by the other dwarves, his shy nature and bookishness setting him apart from his peers. Nori and Dori had done all they could to help him, but he had still never managed to quite fit in with the other dwarves. Bilbo’s acceptance of him was a welcome change. 

“Do you think we have any chance of killing the dragon?” Bilbo suddenly asked, breaking the silence. A quick glance at his face revealed that he already suspected the answer, but wanted to hear it from someone else. 

“No.” Nori saw no point in false assurances. The hobbit smiled grimly.

“That’s what I thought.”

“Why are you still here, then?” Nori asked. At Bilbo’s questioning look, he elaborated. “You could have packed your bags at any time. This is not your quest after all - you could just tell Thorin to stuff it and go home.” Bilbo started sputtering, but Nori went on. “I don’t think anyone would blame you, after all we’ve been through these past few months. If you wanted, you could just steal a bit of gold from Thranduil’s treasury, catch a boat in Lake-town and travel south to Rohan. It would be an easy matter to get back to the Shire from there. You could be home in less than four months.” 

The hobbit looked a little offended at the suggestion at first, but in the end he closed his mouth and shook his head stubbornly.

“I’m not leaving.”

“It would be the smart thing to do, if you ask me.” Nori gave him a sideways glance.

“But it wouldn’t be right,” Bilbo replied, his voice ringing with conviction. 

“No,” Nori said quietly. “It wouldn’t.”

A few heartbeats passed before Bilbo spoke again.

“To be honest, the idea did cross my mind a few times before,” he confessed. He drew his legs up to his chest and wrapped his arms around his knees in a self-conscious gesture. “Mostly at the beginning. I was seriously tempted to just stay in Rivendell and let you go on without me.”

Nori tipped his head to the side to get a better view of his face, which was now mostly hidden behind a curtain of curls.

“Why didn’t you?”

“Because you’re my friends,” Bilbo said simply. “I’m not leaving you behind if I can help it.”

“Are we really?” Nori asked. “Your friends, I mean.”

“Yes, of course you’re my friends,” Bilbo replied without missing a beat. Then he bit his lip, throwing Nori a hesitant look. “At least, most of you are. I can’t imagine that I will ever be friends with Thorin or Dwalin.”

Nori snorted.

“Dwalin doesn’t like anyone.”

That drew a small chuckle from Bilbo.

“Yes, it certainly seems that way. Thorin seems to be the only one whose company he’s willing to tolerate.”

“And Balin,” Nori reminded him. 

“Ah, yes, Balin,” Bilbo said, his lips quirking up into a fond smile. “Poor old chap - he has to put up with them both.”

They exchanged a look before they both burst out laughing, taking care to keep it quiet to avoid alerting the elves. It hadn’t been all that funny, but after so many weeks of living constantly on edge the laughter was a welcome break from the ever-present gloom and danger. Gradually their mirth winded down and they sat together leaning against the wall behind the cot, the companionable silence occasionally broken up with a few stray chuckles. 

After a few minutes Bilbo scooted forward, standing up reluctantly. 

“I should go,” he said. “It’s not safe for me to stay in one place for too long.”

Nori nodded and stood up as well, realising with surprise that he was sorry to see the hobbit go so soon. Bilbo had been a pleasant company in the time he had spent in Nori’s cell. Nori wasn’t looking forward to another week of staring at the wall, with only his mind and the elvish guards for entertainment. Maybe he could convince the hobbit to come by again. He didn’t mind sharing his cot if it meant that he would be able to hold a conversation with someone for longer than two minutes.

Bilbo paused by the door.

“You know, this is the part of our adventure that I dislike the most so far. I thought the forest was horrible, but at least there I had you all to keep me company. This is equal parts stressful and boring and the time here just seems to stretch on endlessly. It feels like we’ve been here for a small eternity already. I can’t wait to get out of here.”

“Me neither,” Nori said. He gave the hobbit a reassuring smile. “I have every confidence that you’ll be able to get us out.”

Bilbo gave him a week smile in return.

“I’ll do my best, but I can’t promise you anything.”

Nori unlocked the door for him and Bilbo slipped through, pulling his ring out of his pocket. 

“I’ll come again in a day or two. Thorin insisted that I visit him often, so I should probably go and tell him what I’ve found out so far.” 

“Good luck,” Nori wished him. With one last nod the hobbit put on his magic ring and disappeared. 

Nori went back to his cot and sat down, already feeling bored out of his mind. Bilbo had been right about the passage of time in this place – it really did feel endless. His gaze fell on the opposite wall and he grinned, a sudden idea coming to life in his mind. The elves would surely love to have their cells decorated with some nice swearwords and few tasteful nudes.

Picking up his discarded spoon, Nori went to work.

*****

For the next few days Bilbo acted as a messenger between the dwarves, carrying messages back and forth. So far he had been unable to discover a safe passage outside and he was starting to look more and more harried with each passing day. Nori privately thought that it may be Thorin’s fault – the dwarven king was most likely becoming impatient and taking out his frustration on the poor hobbit. Dwalin probably didn’t help the issue much, either – the large dwarf had always hated sitting idle. For the sake of poor Bilbo’s nerves, Nori couldn’t wait for their stay in the elvish prison to be over.

Finally, on the day before the elven king’s feast Bilbo appeared at his door, looking excited and terrified at the same time.

“I think I found a way out and it’s completely mad, but I don’t have anything better and the feast is tomorrow. There isn’t much time left.” 

“Tell me what you discovered.”

And so Bilbo told him all about the cellar trapdoor and barrels, the portcullis in the river and the trade with Lake-town. Nori could hardly contain his excitement.

“That could work. It could really work, if we time it right. I could open the cell doors, but it would take me a while and we might get discovered. It would be easier to steal the keys and open the cells that way. Would you be able to do that?”

Bilbo thought for a moment.

“I think so. The High Warden has all the keys, but he is very fond of wine. If he got drunk enough, he would barely notice that his keys are missing. There’s bound to be plenty of wine tomorrow.”

“That sounds promising,” Nori said. “I have memorised the floor plan you gave me, so I can assist you in releasing the dwarves to make the escape faster. I have to warn you though - the others won’t be pleased about being stuffed in barrels.”

Bilbo huffed.

“Then I won’t tell them. By Valar, you dwarves are insufferable. I find you a way out of prison and you complain that it’s not comfortable enough. Confound you all and your damn pride.”

Nori laughed.

“Don’t look at me, lad, I’m not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Believe me, I have used worse things than barrels to get out of tight places before. I’m more than glad to be getting out of here. The others will just have to swallow their pride. It will do them good, I daresay.”

Bilbo gave him a grateful smile.

“Thank you for your support, Nori. Honestly, I don’t know if I could have pulled this off without you. Some of your advice was indispensable.”

Nori smiled, bowing slightly.

“I am at your service, Master Baggins. And I will be even happier when we finally get out of here. I am sure you will have plenty of interesting information to share.” 

“You have _no_ idea.”

_To be continued..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I liked the idea of Nori as someone who is a bit of an a-hole, but still a pretty decent guy overall. I hope I managed to get the idea across well enough. 
> 
> The next chapter should be out on Monday or Tuesday, depending on how fast I can put it together (there are still a few scenes missing). My original plan had been to post at least nine chapters before the second movie came out, but a new trailer convinced me that I don’t have to hurry so much. The entire fic will be posted before the end of the year, because my exams start at the 2nd of January and I really need to begin studying for them soon.
> 
> As always, thank you so much to everyone who continues to follow this fic and leaves me feedback! I love hearing what you thought about my story.


	7. Kíli

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keeping Bilbo occupied for a few hours was certainly no hardship for Kíli.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter now has Fanart! You can see it [here](http://nazgullow.deviantart.com/art/Discovering-Mr-Baggins-Kili-426015597). Many thanks to the talented Nazgullow for the illustration!

By the time they reached their designated house in Lake-town, Bilbo had trouble keeping his eyes open. The moment they stepped over the threshold the hobbit turned to their guide.

“Where are the bedrooms?”

The man looked a little bewildered by the abrupt request, but answered promptly.

“If you go down the corridor on the right, the bedrooms should be on your left.”

Bilbo nodded his thanks and started walking off.

“Where are you going, Bilbo?” Kíli called after him. The hobbit turned back with a long-suffering sigh.

“While all of you were holed up in your comfortable cells, I haven’t slept in ages and I feel like I’m about to fall over, so if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go lay down. Goodnight.”

He gave them a curt nod and shuffled off, disappearing into the first available door. The dwarves stood in the hallway, gaping after him. 

“I think we broke him,” Ori said quietly and the others shifted in discomfort, sensing that the thought had far too much truth to it. Thorin ended the uncomfortable silence.

“Our burglar can join us for a meal tomorrow. For now, let us go to the dining hall and celebrate our escape from the prison. I want to hear what happened to you after I was captured.”

Once they were settled comfortably, with plenty of food and drink to brighten their mood, they were more than happy to tell him all about Bilbo’s battle with the spiders and his spying mission in the elven dungeon. Thorin listened silently for the most part, letting them take turns telling the story. When they finished, he sat for a moment in a thoughtful silence, pondering everything he had just learned.

“How big were the spiders?” he asked finally.

“Big enough to carry Dwalin without much trouble,” Balin told him. “I would say they were at least the size of a well-fed pony, if not bigger.”

“And the hobbit killed them?” Thorin raised a sceptical eyebrow.

Dwalin nodded.

“At least ten, from what I saw.” When Thorin’s expression remained doubting, he scowled. “I can count, you know.”

“He came back for us,” Fíli said. “I have no idea how he did it, because he had been left behind in a different part of the forest, but he somehow managed to find us and save us all from being eaten by the spiders.”

“It was very impressive,” Ori chimed in, eyes shining in excitement. “We couldn’t even lift our arms, because the poison had made us so weak and the spiders started to close in on us, trying to cut off our retreat, but he just went and planted himself between us and the spiders, giving us time to run away while he hacked away at them. He refused to let us help him and fought the spiders all by himself.”

“No wonder nobody has ever tried to invade the Shire,” quipped Bofur, “if this is what an untrained hobbit can do.”

“Don’t forget angry,” muttered Fíli. “He looked mad as hell when he cut us out of those spider webs. I wouldn't want to get on his bad side.” Several of the dwarves nodded in agreement. 

“You know, I didn’t quite believe his story about the wolves when he first told it,” Óin said. “I thought he was just making it up, but I definitely believe him now. I know what I saw in that forest. Wolves had been a child’s play compared to those spiders.”

“I think we may have greatly underestimated him,” Balin said. “I have to say that I didn't think much of Gandalf's initial claims of Bilbo's usefulness, but now I have to admit that he has chosen well. Mr Baggins has proven himself several times over.” 

“If it weren't for him, we'd be dead,” Glóin said.

“Or still in prison.” Thorin sighed. “It seems that we owe Master Baggins a great deal.”

Balin nodded.

“That we do. Almost more than we can ever hope to repay.” 

“We should do something for him while we’re here,” Dori said, drawing their attention. “Give him a gift, or do something to show him that we appreciate what he has done for us.”

“Yes, but what?” Kíli asked. “We have no money and we have lost most of our tools.”

Balin gave him a look.

“I’m sure you’ll be able to think of something.”

“You can always just ask him,” pointed out Bofur. “You two talk to him all the time, so you should be able to find out what else he likes besides flowers and food. I’m sure he’ll be happy to tell you.”

Kíli exchanged a look with Fíli before he gave Bofur a nod. 

“We’ll see what we can do.”

*****

They didn’t see Bilbo until the noon of the next day, when he emerged from his room looking sleepy and still a bit tired, but otherwise much more cheerful than he had in weeks. The dwarves burst out into a spontaneous round of applause when he entered and then started laughing when he blushed to the roots of his hair. He sank down into the chair between Kíli and Ori, looking pleased but a little overwhelmed by all the attention. Kíli used the proximity to pat him on the back, proclaiming:

“Ladies and gentlemen, I give you our hero and saviour, the amazing Mr Baggins.” 

Bilbo ducked his head, blushing even harder.

“Oh, please,” he cried, “just let me have my breakfast! There’s no need for all this fanfare.”

“It’s lunchtime already, but you can have your breakfast, if you prefer,” Dori said. “We saved you some food. Or, you could just eat lunch with the rest of us.”

Bilbo smiled.

“I think that at my present state I’ll be able to do both,” he said, reaching for the nearest scone. “I feel like I haven’t eaten for a year.” 

And wasn’t that the truth, Kíli thought as he watched the hobbit make his way through enough food to feed four dwarves. In the full light of the day Bilbo looked rather pale – a far cry from the sun-loving creature he had been at Beorn’s - and there was a hunted look around his eyes that didn’t use to be there before. His previously well-fitted clothes now hang loosely around his middle, suggesting that he had lost quite a bit of weight. Kíli hoped that they would stay in Lake-town at least for a week, to give Bilbo some time to recover before they went on the final stage of their journey. 

“Did you sleep well?” Balin asked the hobbit. Bilbo gave him a small nod, pausing between bites of bread to answer.

“Yes. As well as can be expected, I suppose. I still can’t quite believe that we really got out. It feels like we spent a small eternity in that dungeon.”

“About three weeks,” Nori said. “I kept a tally, but it started to get a bit muddled towards the end. If you want to know what the exact day is, you should probably ask our hosts.”

Bilbo suddenly gave a thunderous sneeze and started patting his pockets, looking for a handkerchief. Bofur reached over the table, handing him a square of cloth. 

“I found this in the drawer in one of the rooms, thought it might come in handy.”

Bilbo gave him a grateful look and took the handkerchief, blowing his nose loudly. 

“Thank you, Bofur,” he told the dwarf before he turned to answer Nori. “Yes, I will certainly do that. I was planning to go into the town and take a look around, but I need to get rid of this blasted cold first.” He grimaced. “I suppose that’s what I get for soaking in icy water for two days. Still, it could be much worse. I should be grateful that I didn’t drown or catch pneumonia.” When he saw their worried looks, he gave them a small smile. “Don’t worry about me too much. The cold should be gone in a day or two, if I drink enough tea.”

“So, did you find out anything interesting when you were snooping around?” Nori asked. When the others turned to look at him, he sighed. “Before we left the dungeon, Bilbo mentioned that he has some information that could be useful.” He gave the hobbit an apologetic look. “Of course you don’t have to tell us now if you would rather rest.” 

“No, it’s fine,” Bilbo replied. “I found out plenty, but I don’t think any of it will be much use for you. It’s more of a gossip than any actual information.”

That didn’t make their interest vane in the slightest.

“Tell us everything,” Thorin said. Bilbo refilled his teacup, gripping it in both hands to warm himself.

“As you all probably know now, time doesn’t pass very quickly when you’re bored and miserable,” he began. “I had to fill the time somehow.”

“So you spied on the elves?” Glóin asked with disbelief. Bilbo gave him a look.

“What else was I supposed to do? I spent a few hours standing behind Thranduil’s chair in the throne room, but that got boring very fast, so I started exploring the living quarters as well. I must say, being able to see the elves when they are not trying to impress anyone really changes your opinion of them.”

“How?” Bofur leaned forward a bit. “Are they all secretly terrible people?” 

Bilbo frowned.

“No, not terrible, just very...normal. Every time when I saw elves before this, they had always been all about beauty and nobility and ancient wisdom, but these Mirkwood elves are not very different from us. They bicker and sulk and get horribly drunk and play pranks on each other.” He took a sip of his tea.

“The elvenking himself is the most self-absorbed person I have ever seen. He spends most of his time sitting on his throne, looking important, while his son does most of the actual work that goes into running a kingdom. I think Thranduil would have given up his throne to him long ago, if he didn’t like the title so much. When he’s not haunting the throne room, he’s usually drinking.” Bilbo shook his head. “Honestly, I’ve seen a lot of drinking contests in the Shire, but I have never seen anyone drink so much in one sitting. It’s a wonder he could even stand after that, much less...” 

He trailed off, a sudden blush suffusing his cheeks. The dwarves sat in confusion for moment, before Fíli’s eyes grew to an almost comical size.

“Bilbo!” he exclaimed, sounding amused and shocked at the same time. “Don’t tell me you actually watched him...”

Bilbo’s blush deepened.

“Well, I couldn’t leave the room, because he locked it when he came in. He caught me by surprise.”

“Bilbo, you dog!” Kíli exclaimed in admiration, finally catching on. The other dwarves were all wearing amused smirks with the exception of Ori, who just looked confused and Óin, who had fallen asleep. 

“I didn’t do it on purpose!” Bilbo protested, but the dwarves had already started laughing. Several of them clapped him on the back. Poor hobbit looked like he would love to just crawl under the table and hide. “I can never look Thranduil in the eye again,” he muttered, prompting another wave of snickering.

It was a while before the laughter died down. 

“So, are there any other interesting _bits_ you would like to share with us?” Bofur asked with a grin. Bilbo hesitated for a bit, a mischievous grin tugging at his lips.

“Well, there’s also his son, Legolas, but I’m not sure if you want to hear anything about him...” His smile widened when the dwarves all leaned closer, looking ready to burst with curiosity. There was a strange predatory gleam in Dwalin’s eyes and even Thorin looked interested despite his attempts to hide it behind a mask of aloofness. 

“We do,” Dwalin said. “Now spill.”

*****

For two days they had been trying to come up with things to do for Bilbo, but so far they hadn’t been very successful. Now that he had a comfortable bed and plenty of food, the hobbit looked quite content and didn’t seem to be wanting for anything.

Besides, none of them could ever hope to beat Ori.

The shy dwarf had approached Bilbo after their first breakfast in Lake-town and drew a small book from his jacket, offering it to Bilbo.

“I have kept this safe for you, as promised.”

The look of wonder and delight on Bilbo’s face could have lit a thousand suns.

“Thank you.” He took the book with reverent hands, skimming briefly through the pages before he stepped forward and drew the startled dwarf into a hug. “Thank you.”

Ori’s expression quickly turned from surprised to pleased and he hugged the hobbit back with a small grin. 

“You’re welcome.”

Since then they had spent most of their time in the house, eating and relaxing while Bilbo slowly recovered from his cold. It was on their fourth day in Lake-town that Bilbo wandered into the common room with a frown on his face. 

“I wonder if they have a barber here,” the hobbit said absent-mindedly, tugging at his hair with one hand. “My hair has gotten awfully long since we left Bag-End. I need a haircut.”

Kíli, who had been trying to see how many sugar cubes he could stack on Bombur’s head before the rotund dwarf woke up from his nap, quickly set down the rest of the sugar and rushed over, pulling Bilbo’s hand away from his hair.

“No. No, absolutely not. You cannot get a haircut.” 

“Why not?” Bilbo frowned at him. 

“Because it’s terrible and you shouldn’t even mention it out loud.” He sighed when he saw Bilbo’s confusion. “Dwarvish hair grows very slowly and we take a great deal of pride in it. It’s a terrible thing for a dwarf to have his hair cut off. It’s the worst insult you can do to them.” He gave Bilbo a look. “I know you hobbits do it differently, but you’re a member of the Company now and it would make everyone unhappy if you cut your hair short.”

“What am I supposed to do, then?” Bilbo didn’t look pleased. “In the Shire I go for a haircut every three months. My hair grows fast. I can’t just prance around with my hair waving about like this, it gets in my eyes.” He reached a hand behind his head, combing through the hair on his nape. “Oh, goodness. It has already grown past my shoulders. If I left it alone for two years, it would be as long as yours.”

“That would be a sight to behold.” Kíli felt his interest piqued, trying to imagine Bilbo with long hair. It wasn’t a bad thought. He would bet his uncle would like it as well, as much as he refused to admit it. As he looked at the hobbit, an idea started to form in his head. 

“Wait here,” Kíli told Bilbo and ran off to look for his brother. He found him in the dining hall, chatting with Ori. He only needed to mention Bilbo for his brother to jump on the idea, an excited spring entering his step as they walked back. Fíli made a brief detour into their room to get a comb and soon they were back in the common room where Bilbo still stood in front of the mirror, frowning at his reflection. 

“Come here, I’m going to try and do something about your hair.” Kíli motioned for him to sit on one of the stools. Bilbo sat down slowly, looking dubious. 

“You won’t make me look foolish, will you?”

“Just wait and see. Fíli is here to tell me if it looks terrible. And if you don’t like it, we can always change it. I am not doing anything permanent.” 

He started with the comb, but soon found himself running his hands through the hair, enjoying the feel of softness under his fingers.

“Your hair is so soft,” he murmured. “And those curls are simply amazing. I have never met a dwarf with hair as fine as this.”

Suddenly Fíli tugged at his shirt, bringing him out of his reverie. 

“Uncle is here,” he hissed. Leaning closer, he muttered into his ear: “You may want to stick to the comb, or you risk losing those fingers.” 

And really, when Kíli looked over, he saw Thorin standing at the door, watching them with narrowed eyes. It wasn’t as if Kíli had been doing anything indecent – they were in a public hall and Fíli was there as a witness - but Thorin’s gaze still made Kíli feel like he was ten years old again, stealing cookies from a kitchen jar. He quickly drew his fingers back and reached for the comb instead. 

The combing itself didn’t take long. Kíli opted for a simple hairstyle, similar to the one he himself wore. Bilbo’s hair wasn’t yet long enough for a braid, but when he straightened it a bit, Kíli was able to clasp the fringe together at the back of the head, letting the lower strands hang down over Bilbo’s shoulders. He used one of his own silver clasps to tie it together, marvelling at the way the silver shone in the hobbit’s golden curls. He stood back a bit to admire his work.

“What do you think, brother? I think it suits him well.”

Fíli did a small circle around the stool.

“It looks nice. With the ears bared like that, he almost looks like an elf.” He grinned. “You know, Bilbo, when your hair gets a bit longer, we will have to make you a braid. You are practically an honorary dwarf already, you should have a braid.” He stepped back.

“Go and take a look and tell us what you think.”

Bilbo slid from the stool and made his way over to the mirror. He stood in silence for a while, turning his head from side to side. Carefully, he raised a hand to touch the clasp in the back.

“Did you give me your clasp, Kíli?”

“I did.” When he saw Bilbo open his mouth to protest, he hurried on. “I always carry several spare clasps with me, because I lose them a lot. You can have it, really, I have a few more. Besides, there are bound to be hundreds of pretty hair accessories in the dragon hoard. I can pick some new ones there.” 

Bilbo turned back to the mirror, this time in appraisal. Slowly, a smile started to form on his lips.

“You are right, it does look rather elvish. But I like it.” He snorted. “If someone from the Shire saw me now, they would be positively scandalized.”

He walked back to them and gave Kíli a warm smile.

“Thank you, Kíli. You have done a nice job with it. Now I just need to go and find a tailor to make me some new clothes. These look hardly presentable.” He looked in regret at his attire, battered and worn from the months of travel. 

He started towards the door.

“Wait!” Fíli cried. “You can’t go outside, you will be ambushed by the townspeople. They are camped in droves on our front door. They won’t let you take a step without bothering you.”

“You mean they bother _you_ ,” Bilbo retorted. “I know that they turn obnoxiously loud the very moment a dwarf as much as sticks his nose outside, but so far the lake-people have paid very little attention to me. If I walk carefully enough barely anyone will notice me. I thought about stretching my legs a bit, maybe gathering a bit of the local gossip. Don’t worry about me,” he added when he saw their worried faces, “they won’t hurt me and I’m used to nosiness. I’ll be back for dinner.”

With that, he walked out of the room, paying no heed to their protests. They walked after him into the hall and waited for the roar of cheers that always rose whenever someone opened the front door, but no sound came. The faint thread of song continued uninterrupted under their windows and no voices rose in greeting. Puzzled, they returned to the common room.

“Bless me,” said Fíli, “I think he really has managed to sneak out. Did you think he used the ring again?”

“No,” Nori spoke up from the corner. “I think he just walked out. He doesn’t need the ring to pass around unnoticed. How do you think he managed to survive for two weeks under the elves’ noses? Those pointy eared buggers have awfully sharp hearing and yet I never heard any of them being suspicious of his presence. In the goblin cave I saw him slip away from the goblins that took us and not a single one of them noticed him get away. He will be fine.” 

That calmed them both down. Nori usually had a very good estimate about everyone’s abilities and if he felt confident about Bilbo’s safety, there wasn’t much cause to worry. 

Indeed, a few hours later Bilbo slipped back into the house, completely unharmed, but wearing a peculiar expression on his face. 

“I’m fine,” was the first thing he said when he walked into the dining hall and saw that the companions had been waiting for his return. “I didn’t have any trouble with the locals. Everyone was very nice to me and I found out many interesting things.”

He sat down to the dining table and started piling food on his plate. 

“And yet you look a bit disturbed, laddie.” Balin said, perceptive as ever. 

Bilbo laughed nervously.

“It’s nothing, really.” He started eating, but it didn’t take long before the story came pouring out. 

“Apparently, since nobody knows who I am supposed to be, the local folks have started to make up all sorts of tales about me. Some are quite entertaining, some downright ridiculous and some rather embarrassing.” He grimaced. “The most popular theory is that I am some member of hobbit royalty. What purpose I am supposed to serve in your quest, I have no idea, but the tale got very popular and people started to call me “Prince of the Halflings”. It’s ridiculous.” He bit off a piece of ham. “Personally, I prefer the version that says that I am actually a powerful wizard, hired to slay the dragon. It’s much more impressive.”

“Tell us what you found,” Thorin said, his eyes still scanning the hobbit’s form for any hidden injuries. Kíli couldn’t help but notice how Thorin’s gaze lingered over Bilbo’s hair, and hid his grin in his goblet.

“Nobody has seen the dragon for more than sixty years,” Bilbo said. “There are many in the town who think that Smaug is dead, and even some who openly doubt that the dragon even exists. The dwarven kingdom is remembered mostly as a legend, but many were eager to dig up the old histories when they heard there may be gold involved.

“Most of the town’s wealth comes from trade with the elves. There are no other settlements nearby – to the south lie only marshes and the mountains in the north are crawling with orcs. The dwarfs from the Iron Hills come here a few times a year and make good profit by selling various gems and tools. None of the two forest roads are passable and there are squabbles between the elves and lake-people about the upkeep of the river bank, but other than that, they live in peace. The Master of the Town in not very pleased with our presence, because it could put him on bad terms with Thranduil. However, his voice got outvoted by the majority, so he keeps quiet for now. I think he would like to see us leave as soon as possible.”

He took a few sips of ale before he continued.

“While the Master may be a leader in title, the real power, it seems, lies with the Captain of the guard.” He looked at Thorin. “If you need to conduct any business or strategy with Lake-town, I suggest you go to him. His name is Bard and apparently he comes from the line of Kings of Dale. He’s a bit grim but very smart and the people look up to him.”

“You got all that just in the few hours you’ve been away?” Glóin looked astonished. 

Bilbo shrugged.

“People talk a lot when you ask the right questions. They think I’m harmless because I’m so small. Half of them treat me like a child, which is a bit annoying, I admit, but it makes them less careful about what they say. I used to hate it when the men I traded with didn’t take me seriously, but now it comes in handy. I could go back tomorrow and find out more, if you want.”

“That would be helpful,” Balin said. “Did you learn anything else?”

“Hm,” Bilbo’s expression fell a little and he looked down at his plate, stabbing a potato with his fork. “I missed my birthday. And old man at the market keeps a calendar and was more than happy to tell me the date.” 

“When was it?” Fíli asked softly. There was a hint of interest in his voice that caught Kíli’s attention and the two of them exchanged a look, a plan slowly starting to grow in their minds.

“Four days ago, at the 22nd of September – the day we arrived here,” Bilbo answered, still staring at his plate. “This is the first year that I didn’t have a birthday party.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe I spent my birthday soaking in icy water.” 

The hobbit’s head was bowed, so he didn’t see the looks that the companions exchanged over his head. Thorin gave a silent nod and they all grinned, glad that they had finally managed to find something they could do for Bilbo. Kíli had to sit on his hands to prevent himself from jumping up in excitement and ruining the surprise.

They were going to have a party.

*****

When Bilbo announced that he was going out the next day, Fíli and Kíli were prepared for him. They jumped up from their armchairs in the common room, flanking him on either side.

“We’re coming with you,” Kíli announced cheerfully.

Bilbo startled a bit, but didn’t look like he wanted to protest. He just gave them a resigned look and let them follow behind him as he walked out of the house. The dwarves had all agreed that someone should keep the hobbit away from the house while the others prepared the party, so this was the perfect opportunity to put their plan into action. Kíli saw Fíli exchange a nod with Balin as they passed and felt his excitement rise. Keeping Bilbo occupied for a few hours was certainly no hardship for him.

Trailing after Bilbo, Kíli finally had the chance to see the hobbit’s own personal brand of magic at work. While the people started exclaiming over him and Fíli the moment they saw them, they usually didn’t notice Bilbo’s presence until the hobbit spoke to them. They followed him through the market and watched as he spoke to merchants and craftsmen, effortlessly charming them into parting with some of their wares in exchange for a few golden coins or a nicely cut gem. 

“No wonder they call him a prince,” Fíli remarked when Bilbo handed a small ruby to the baker’s daughter, making her blush with delight. “They probably have to work for a month to get as much as he hands over for a single purchase.”

They waited until they were out of the market place and far enough from any curious ears before Fíli turned to Bilbo.

“Where did you get all this?” He nodded towards the money pouch. “I had no idea that you have gems like that in the Shire.”

“We don’t,” Bilbo said. “This came from Thranduil’s treasury.”

“You stole from the Elvenking?” Fíli’s eyebrows shot up. Bilbo gave him a look.

“Did you really expect me to leave empty-handed? Thranduil loves hoarding treasure and has enough gold to rival the dragon. I simply decided to borrow a bit of it for the journey. I can always pay him back from the dragon hoard if he insists, but I doubt that he will notice that a few coins are missing. His treasury takes up several rooms.” 

He showed them his money pouch.

“I tried to choose the smaller pieces so that my pocket wouldn’t be too heavy. I am no expert on jewels, but I think this should be more than enough to pay for our stay here and the supplies for the journey to the mountain.” 

Fíli and Kíli both leaned closer to take a look inside.

“Yes, that’s more than enough,” Fíli said with a nod. 

“You don’t have to pay them so much, you know,” Kíli couldn’t help but say. “Each one of those gems would be more than enough to pay for all our purchases.”

Bilbo shrugged.

“These people have been most generous to us. It’s only polite to repay them in kind. Since Thorin isn’t going to do it and none of the rest of you have any money left, I’m the only one who can do anything about it. I would feel terrible if we just let them pamper us without giving anything back.”

“Why not give the gold to the Master of the town, then?” Kíli asked. Bilbo took a careful look around to make sure nobody was listening to them. 

“I don’t like him,” he said simply. “He has something insincere about his manner. He reminds me of my relatives, who always come for tea and then try to steal my silverware when I turn my back. I wouldn’t trust him if I were you.” They emerged from the small side street back to the market and started heading towards the tailor’s shop. “Besides, he’s not doing anything for us – it’s the people who keep us supplied, not their Master. Thorin can give him something before we leave if he wants, but I’m certainly not going to.”

They got Bilbo decked out in his new clothes and after a moment of persuasion he managed to talk them both into getting their measurements taken, too. They tried to make the journey back as long as they could, stalling at the marketplace, but Kíli could tell that Bilbo was getting impatient to return back to the rest of the Company and the relative privacy of their temporary housing. Finally they were unable to come up with a plausible excuse to stay in town any longer and there was nothing left for them to do but follow him meekly back, hoping that the others had managed to put everything together already.

They had. 

The three of them walked into the dining hall to find a feast waiting for them, the whole Company gathered in welcome.

“Happy Birthday!” they all yelled when Bilbo walked into the room, stunning the hobbit speechless. 

“What’s all this?” he asked in amazement.

“That’s your birthday party,” Kíli told him with a smile. He threw an arm around his shoulders and led him closer to the table. “I’m afraid that we didn’t manage to get a you proper cake, but there should be plenty of other food. Enough even for a hobbit.” He gave Bilbo a playful grin. 

“Well, I certainly hope so,” said Bilbo haughtily. “You kept me in that marketplace for long enough.” He didn’t manage to keep up his expression for long and his face soon broke into a grin. “Thank you,” he said and pulled Kíli into a hug. Kíli hugged him back, pleased that they had finally managed to find some way to make their friend happy.

“Do I get a hug, too?” Fíli asked behind his back. 

“Of course,” Bilbo said, smiling as he stepped towards the blond dwarf. 

“You have new clothes!” Ori exclaimed suddenly, drawing their attention to his attire. Bilbo pulled back from Fíli to let them all take a look and Kíli didn’t miss the double-take that Thorin did before he went back to pretending disinterest. He wasn’t very good at it though – his eyes strayed back towards the hobbit every half a minute or so, ruining the pretence of nonchalance. 

Kíli had to turn away to hide his grin, which only grew when he saw that Bilbo was completely oblivious to the gazes sent his way. He stood by the table, all his attention focused on something Balin was telling him. It was no wonder Thorin had trouble keeping his eyes to himself, Kíli thought – Bilbo really did look very handsome in his new clothes. The jacket was made of fine blue wool with a brown vest underneath and even though the colours weren’t the usual hobbit fare, the tailor had done a pretty good job imitating the hobbit fashion otherwise. It didn’t escape Kíli’s notice that Bilbo had foregone buying new buttons, opting instead to re-sew the wooden buttons he had gotten from Bifur and Bofur. 

Apparently Bofur noticed it too, because he walked over to the hobbit, inspecting the clothes with a smile.

“You kept the buttons.”

“Of course I did,” Bilbo said. “They are my favourite.” His smile widened and he spread his arms to the sides, showing off the garments. “So, what do you think?”

Bofur pretended to consider the answer.

“Very nice,” he said finally. “I think it was a good idea – this way if the dragon kills you, you will at least leave a very dashing corpse.”

Everyone looked at him in horror, but to their surprise Bilbo only chuckled.

“That’s what I though.” He gave Bofur a pat on the shoulder and went to get some food. 

“Come here, everyone!” he called after he had eaten four chicken legs. “It wouldn’t be a proper birthday party if I didn’t give out some presents. I’ll have you know that I throw the best parties in the Shire, so I would be woefully remiss if I didn’t give you anything."

“Why would you give us anything?” Fíli asked, puzzled.

“It’s my birthday, so you should all get presents,” Bilbo said like it was obvious.

“How come we get presents if it’s your birthday? Shouldn’t we be giving you something?” Fíli still wasn’t convinced. 

“It’s a hobbit tradition,” Bilbo explained. “I usually have plenty of trinkets laying around that I give out to all the neighbours, but this year is obviously a bit problematic, so you will have to make do with this.” He drew out his pouch. 

“When I was sneaking around the elvenking’s palace, I happened to come across his treasury. I am afraid that I wasn’t able to steal any of those great dwarven-made things that he had, as the transport would be rather complicated, but I think you’ll appreciate these nonetheless.” He turned the pouch upside down, spilling the gems gently on the table. “These may come from the elves, but I think they were mined in Erebor by some of your ancestors. Unless I lost something in the river, each of you should get at least one piece.” 

“Shouldn’t we give you something, too?” Balin asked. Bilbo shrugged.

“You already threw this party for me, but I’m certainly not stopping you, should you wish to. Anyway, take as many of the stones as you wish. I have already bought everything that I wanted, so you can take these and buy something for yourselves. Clothes, weapons, books, whatever you wish. If something remains, it can go into the Company fund.” He gave a look to Balin, who nodded in agreement.

While everyone was busy squabbling over the gems, Thorin drew Bilbo gently aside and was now speaking to him in a low voice. The hobbit looked a bit confused, but pleased at the same time. Kíli nudged Fíli and they both exchanged a knowing look, turning back to their companions to hide their grins. Thank Mahal, Kíli thought. Thorin was finally doing something about his “situation”.

It was adorable, really, to watch those two dance around each other. Or - more precisely – to watch Thorin circle around the hobbit, who seemed to be completely oblivious of the dwarf’s interest. It had become one of Kíli’s favourite pastimes to watch his uncle’s attempts at subtlety and then the subsequent frustration when his advances were completely ignored. Thorin in a courting mode was hilarious – despite being so fond of dramatic gestures and grand speeches, when it came to an expression of affection, he turned into a bumbling, blabbering wreck. It brought Kíli no end of amusement.

As he watched Bilbo blush and duck his head after a remark from Thorin, Kíli couldn’t help but wonder what had happened between those two in the elvish dungeon. There was something different between them when they stood together now that hadn’t been there in Mirkwood - a new sense of awareness. Bilbo was finally starting to respond to Thorin, though it was all still very cautious and tentative. Kíli couldn’t wait to see where this was headed. 

And so did the rest of the Company, he thought when he noticed them all watching Thorin and the hobbit surreptitiously while pretending to still argue over the gems. Since they were dwarves and subtlety was not their forte, they failed at the ruse completely, but luckily neither Bilbo nor Thorin had noticed anything amiss yet thanks to being absorbed in their conversation. 

Bofur’s gaze flew from the rowdy group around him to the pair in the corner before he rolled his eyes, obviously suppressing a grin.

“Let’s roll out the barrel!” he exclaimed, which managed to effectively draw everyone’s attention away from those two. 

The dwarves set the table and finally sat down for a feast, putting Bilbo at the head of the table for once. They had managed to get plenty of roasted pork and chicken, several bowls of mashed potatoes and two large barrels of ale that was surprisingly good in quality, so everyone was more than pleased with the menu. 

Before they could dig in and forget about propriety and table manners, Fíli rose from his seat, thumping his goblet on the table loudly.

“I’d like to propose a toast.” He raised the goblet in Bilbo’s direction. “To our wonderful Mr Baggins, our resident heroic burglar and the very best of hobbits. Truly, he is the Prince of the Halflings,” he made a theatrical bow, drawing many laughs from their companions. “May his fortune multiply and his curls grow even longer. Happy Birthday.” He sat back down to loud cheers. 

Bilbo looked torn between exasperation and amusement. 

“I will never live this down, will I?”

“No,” Kíli said resolutely, putting and arm around Bilbo’s shoulders. “You know, Bilbo, we should make you a crown, to go with the title. Gold, I think, would match your hair nicely.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous.” Bilbo swatted at his arm, but couldn’t suppress his smile. “Next you will be claiming that I am trying to usurp Thorin’s throne. 

“Well, now that you mention it, it’s not such a bad idea...” Fíli started.

Bilbo buried his face in his hands.

“Why did I ever say anything?”

_To be continued..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I have just written Bilbo Baggins, the Accidental Voyeur. I swear I have no idea how it happened. Please forgive me :D
> 
> Bilbo’s hair will play a role in the latter chapters and the decision to make it longer was completely deliberate. I always wondered at the characters in LOTR, who manage to spend a whole year without having their hair grow by so much as an inch (I know, I know, logistics of filmmaking, wigs etc., but it still bugged me a bit). Since Bilbo had been on the road for nearly half a year already, his hair could have grown by at least two inches (mine certainly does). 
> 
> The blue clothes are the only thing that I borrow from the second movie. There should be (hopefully) very little overlap between this story and the movie, but I liked the idea of Bilbo dressed in blue (I know Thorin certainly does:) when I saw the trailer, so I decided to put it in.
> 
> Next chapter should be up on Thursday, December 12 (maybe earlier, if I write really fast). Stay tuned and thanks as always for the feedback!


	8. Glóin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Lonely Mountain was a sight to behold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter now has Fanart! You can see it [here](http://nazgullow.deviantart.com/art/Discovering-Mr-Baggins-Gloin-426419669). Many thanks to the talented Nazgullow for the illustration!

The Lonely Mountain was a sight to behold. 

It rose before them tall and forbidding, its base shrouded in mist. For someone seeing it for the first time, the sight was truly impressive. As the boats slowly floated closer, the company fell silent, gazing at the mountain in awe. For those of them who had lived in Erebor the sight brought back old memories, while the others simply marvelled at the sheer size and the fact that they were finally at the end of their journey. 

Glóin himself was in the second group. He had never set foot in Erebor, having been born after the dragon attack, but both Óin and their father had often told him tales about the glory of the dwarven realm when he was a child. No tale, however, could do full justice to the sheer majesty of the mountain, which only left one to imagine the piles of treasure lying inside. 

“If only Gimli could see this!” Glóin said to his brother as they set up camp on the shore. 

Óin nodded thoughtfully, his gaze still on the mountain.

“Aye, Gimli will be terribly disappointed that he missed this. The sight alone is something to behold. I had almost forgotten how big the mountain was.”

“I will have to ask Ori to make a drawing for me,” Glóin said. “It will be still some time before Gimli can move in with us.”

“You have a son?” Bilbo spoke up behind him. The hobbit had been puttering around with pots and pans, helping Bombur with the dinner, but Glóin’s conversation had piqued his curiosity. 

“Indeed I do.” Glóin didn’t mind the interruption. “He’s a very fine, sturdy lad, and very brave. He wanted to go on the quest with me and Óin, but I forbid it. He is much too young to go adventuring.”

“Our mother didn’t want us to go, either,” piped up Kíli. “She said that it’s too dangerous and we’re too young, but we both wanted to go. It was Uncle’s idea to take us with him and he was quite stubborn about it. She gave in eventually, but they had a huge argument about it. Mother still wasn’t happy with Uncle when we left.”

“She may protest, but you are both adults and you can make your own decisions,” Glóin told Kíli. “Gimli, on the other hand, is still far too young for this.”

“Oh,” Bilbo said, “how old is he?” 

“He turned sixty two this year,” Glóin announced proudly. “I suppose he’s old enough to wield an axe - younger lads than him have fought in battles before - but if something happened to the two of us, there would be nobody to take care of my dear Nora. I couldn’t bear to leave her all alone.”

“Your wife?” Bilbo asked, a slight uncertainty in his voice. Glóin didn’t blame him – dwarves as a whole were a private bunch, and they rarely divulged personal information to outsiders. He only had to remember the “there are no dwarf women” nonsense to remind himself that there were all sorts of misconceptions held about dwarves. Bilbo was a polite lad and clearly didn’t want to offend him, so the caution was not misplaced.

Glóin gave him a warm smile.

“Aye, my wife. She is the most beautiful of all dwarven ladies, with eyes like sapphires and hair like a river of gold.” 

In the background he could hear several of their companions mutter: “Oh Mahal, not again,” and roll their eyes but he paid them no mind. Bilbo looked genuinely interested, so Glóin left Óin to tend the fire and went to sit next to the hobbit.

“Here, I can show you her picture and you can tell me what you think.” He dug out his medallion from under his shirt and cracked it open to show it to the hobbit. To Bilbo’s credit, he barely blinked upon seeing the beard.

“She looks lovely. I assume the lad is your son. He looks a lot like you.”

“That he does,” Glóin nodded. “I’m afraid he inherited my temper as well as my colouring.” He gave the medallion a fond look. “I cannot wait to see them both again. I have never been away from them for this long.”

“How did you meet your wife? Or should I not be asking that? I don’t want to pry.”

Glóin waved away his apologies. 

“Ask away, I don’t mind. I met my beautiful Nora when I was little more than a lad. We were trying to settle down in the Blue Mountains, where my father worked as a sword-smith to feed me and Óin. I used to run errands for him, delivering weapons.” His gaze turned dreamy. “And that was when I met her. She was carrying a loaf of bread down the street, frowning at the sun and I thought she was the loveliest being I have ever set my eyes on. I proposed to her right there and then and she whacked me over the head with the bread.” He grinned fondly at the memory.

“She has a surprisingly sharp tongue for such a fair creature. She called me many unflattering names and refused to ever see me again. It took five years just for her to agree to courtship and another ten before she was willing to marry me.” He smiled in admiration. “She is stubborn, my Nora.” 

Bilbo’s surprised expression made him chuckle. 

“Aye, dwarven courtship can take a long time. I knew at once that she was the one for me, but she had her pride and refused to give me the time of the day. Not everyone has it so hard though – my cousin Dáli married after just two years of courting. Still, I consider myself very lucky – there are plenty of us who never marry.” He turned to look at Bilbo. “And what about you, Master Baggins? You have no pretty lass waiting for you at home?”

Out of the corner of his eye he saw several of the dwarfs straighten up and turn their heads their way, but Bilbo didn’t notice anything, because he was staring into the flames. He shook himself quickly, plastering a polite smile on his face, but his eyes were shuttered.

“No, I don’t have a wife, or children. It’s not exactly uncommon, at my age, to be a bachelor, but it’s not a popular choice, especially since I’m quite wealthy. My perpetual bachelordom is a great source of displeasure for many local matrons who hoped to foist their daughters on me and I’m frequently called selfish for having such a large home and living in it all by myself.” He sighed. “I’d like to say that I like the peace and quiet, but it gets lonely sometimes. I wouldn’t mind having a companion.” 

“So why aren’t you married?”

Bilbo dropped his eyes to the ground.

“I haven’t found anyone in the Shire who could hold my interest, but even if I did, the union wouldn’t be received well.”

“Why?”

Bilbo fidgeted.

“How do I put this delicately? Hobbits marry to produce children. It is expected that a Hobbit of an adult age would find a nice woman and settle down. A certain amount of...dalliance is tolerated in youth, but heavily frowned upon when one reaches marriageable age.”

“OH!” Bofur exclaimed in comprehension, sitting down on the other side of the hobbit. “You like men?” 

Bilbo buried his head in his hands. 

“Can you shout it any louder? I don’t think the elves in Mirkwood heard you.”

Glóin clapped him on the shoulder.

“There’s no need to be ashamed, lad, dwarves consider it perfectly acceptable. It would be hard not to, when there are so few women among us. Many dwarves marry each other and adopt a cousin or nephew to be their heir. It’s a fairly common practice.”

“Really?” Bilbo looked between them, relief evident on his features. “It it’s true, then you dwarves have a lot more sense than my dim-witted countrymen. We can only adopt an heir when we turn eighty and it’s clear we will never get married. Other than that, you can only name heirs through a will. I had a really hard time choosing my heir when I wrote my will in Bree, because I never expected to name one so early in life.”

“You already wrote a will?” Bofur asked, incredulous.

Bilbo gave him a look.

“Well, I remember _someone_ being very vocal about the potential for evisceration and incineration and other wonderful things the dragon could do to me. I simply took some reasonable precautions. Even if I don’t count the dragon - _who is not dead yet, by the way_ \- the journey itself has been full of danger. It was not unrealistic to imagine I might not return from the quest.”

Bofur had the good grace to look apologetic. 

“Anyway,” Bilbo continued, “I had to name an heir, which was no easy task, because there are so many relatives to choose from.”

“Don’t you have any siblings?” Kíli had crept nearer as they spoke and now plopped down at Bilbo’s feet, looking at the hobbit with curiosity.

“No,” Bilbo said. “I am an only child. It’s one of the reasons why I’m considered odd by the Shirefolk. Most hobbits have at least four children. My father himself had four siblings and my mother eleven.”

“ELEVEN?” Kíli’s yell drew the attention of the few folks who hadn’t been listening to their conversation until then. “You grandfather had _twelve children_?” His eyes looked ready to pop out of his head. 

“Yes,” Bilbo shrugged, “but that is considered a bit of an anomaly even by hobbit standards. My grandfather was also the longest living hobbit in all history, having lived until hundred and thirty. As it is, I have at least fifteen cousins just from my mother’s side and there are several others on my father’s side, making the number at least twenty.” He frowned. “To be quite honest, I’m not entirely sure how many cousins there are in total, since they live all over the Shire. I had to choose the least annoying one to be my heir, which was a pretty tough task, and I only had three days for it.”

“Who did you choose?” Glóin found himself quite curious, despite not knowing a single person in the Shire.

“I named my cousin Drogo as my heir,” Bilbo said. “He is young, capable and fairly clever, for a hobbit. He was supposed to get married this summer to my other cousin, Primula. I would have probably made him my heir anyway in a few years, because he is the only person around with a lick of sense.”

“I think you have been spending too much time around Gandalf,” Dori said from behind them. “You’re beginning to sound like him.” 

The dwarves all started to laugh.

“Are you sure you’re not secretly a wizard?” Bofur asked with a grin. 

"You would look really fetching in a pointy hat,” Kíli snickered. Bilbo stood up with a look of exasperation. 

“Someone should help Bombur with the fish,” he announced importantly and started to walk away. After a few steps he paused and threw a look at Kíli, who was still chuckling. “You know, I thought about teaching you how to make smoke-rings, but now I see that it would be a waste of time. After all, _wizards_ don’t have time for such nonsense.”

He started walking towards the river, leaving Kíli to scramble frantically after him.

“Wait!” The young dwarf cried. “I take it back!” 

Glóin and Bofur just exchanged an amused look and went back to their work.

*****

Even since the rowers had left them several days ago, a hush had fallen over the company. The mountain on the horizon came a bit closer every day and while before it had been calling them like a beacon, now it just looked ominous - a towering mass of dark stone against the steel-grey sky. The lands around the mountain lay barren for miles and miles, not a bird or a blade of grass in sight. The presence of rowers and their boats had given the dwarves an illusion of protection, so now that the Lake-men were gone the Companions all suddenly felt horribly exposed as they rode through the open land by the river.

The bleakness of the devastated land made their spirits sink lower each day and in the evenings they all huddled around the fire, casting suspicious glances into the growing darkness. Only Bilbo seemed more or less unaffected, humming a tune under his breath as he cleaned and then roasted the fish for dinner. Most of the dwarves just sat in silence with a frown on their face, their minds a thousand miles way. 

Glóin had no idea what sort of thoughts the other Companions used to keep themselves entertained during the more tedious parts of their journey (such as during their stay in prison or their current trek to the mountain), but the one thing that occupied his mind most these days was his family. With the mountain looming nearer and nearer every day and the threat of the dragon almost tangible in the cold autumn air, Glóin found himself thinking about his wife and son almost constantly. 

He wondered what Nora was doing, which led him to imagine her baking bread in the kitchen, humming a merry tune under her breath, her blue eyes shining bright in contentment. She would turn to him with a soft smile on her face and he would wipe away the small streak of flour on her cheek with a gentle brush of his thumb. He remembered Gimli, too - the joy in his eyes when he had given the lad a new axe for his birthday - and wondered whether his son had finally been accepted into the King’s Guard. 

Whenever he found himself feeling disquieted by the unnatural silence that lay over the dragon’s land, he would comfort himself by thinking about home and the two people who waited for him there. He missed Nora’s soothing hands and Gimli’s booming laugh and couldn’t wait to get back home. Sometimes, but not very often, he even caught himself wishing that he had never left the Blue Mountains and that he was still back at home, sitting by the fireplace with his wife and son by his side. 

He took care never to mention that particular thought to anyone though, because he still vividly remembered how much scorn the hobbit had gotten for his homesickness during the first months of their journey. He had no doubt that he wasn’t the only one who was thinking of the Blue Mountains as they travelled towards Erebor, but nobody was brave enough to confess to it. 

“Will you tell us another story, Bilbo?” Kíli asked one evening after they had set up camp beneath the Ravenhill. He had risen from his place near the ponies and was now hovering behind the hobbit's back, watching him work.

“I see no reason why I shouldn't,” Bilbo shrugged. “Just let me finish preparing the fish first and then you can have any story you want.”

The evenings of tales had started in Lake-town – Ori had come to Bilbo one night to discuss an obscure elvish legend and since their conversation had involved brave heroes and fire-breathing dragons, it had caught the young princes' attention. Ever since then Fíli and Kíli had made it a point to ask for a story every night and so far Bilbo hadn't disappointed. He seemed to be a veritable fountain of old tales, delighting the youngsters with stories of great heroics and bloody battles of old.

The others had at first pretended that elvish tales didn't interest them, but after their departure from Lake-town Bilbo's evening storytelling had quickly become the main source of entertainment for everyone, since there was nothing better to do.

Bilbo complied this evening, too, sitting down on a log by the fire while the three young dwarves plopped down on a bedroll at his feet. 

“What would you like to hear?” he asked them. 

“You haven't told us much about the Shire,” Ori said. 

“That's because there's not much to tell,” Bilbo said. “Nothing interesting ever happens in the Shire. I'm sorry to say it, but I think that your visit and my departure were probably the most exciting thing to happen since the Old Took's death, and that had been more than twenty years ago.”

“Surely there must be something,” Fíli insisted. “Didn't you mention that the goblins had attacked Shire once? You already told us about the wolves, but you haven't said much about the goblin invasion. That one must have been exciting.”

“Well, I don't know about exciting, but it does make for a pretty good story,” Bilbo said. “I think Kíli especially will like this one.” He gave the dark-haired dwarf a smile.

“Why me?” Kíli demanded. 

Bilbo's smile turned mysterious.

“Wait and see. Have you ever heard about my ancestor Bandobras Took?” 

Fíli and Kíli shook their heads, but Ori looked thoughtful.

“I think I vaguely remember Gandalf mentioning something about him on that night in the Shire, but I wasn't paying much attention to it.”

Bilbo nodded.

“Yes, Gandalf spoke about him when he was trying to persuade me to join your quest. He probably meant to motivate me to follow my ancestor’s example, but I have to say that he wasn't very successful. The only thing he had managed to accomplish by his little speech was to annoy me, but you don't care to hear about that, do you?” he asked when he saw their confusion. “Anyway, back to Bandobras Took and the battle of the Green Fields.

“Bandobras was my great-great-great-great-uncle and to this day he is the most famous hobbit that had ever lived. It is said that he was the tallest hobbit in history - taller even then a dwarf - and that he had tremendous strength. Two hundred years ago, when the goblins invaded Shire from the north, he gathered an army and rode out to meet them. There were at least five hundred goblins at the battle and they weren’t expected any opposition from the local hobbit folk, having plundered the village of Bree before that.”

His smile grew into a full sized grin. 

“The goblins thought that they could take Shire easily, but boy were they in for a surprise.”

“What happened?” Kíli said, leaning forward eagerly. With his hair flopping around his head like that, he almost looked like an overgrown puppy. 

“Bandobras drove them out,” Bilbo told them. “He charged the goblin army on his horse and swung his enormous wooden club at the goblin king's head, knocking it clear off. It flew into the air and sailed clear over the goblin ranks until it landed in a rabbit hole a hundred yards away. When the goblins saw their king defeated, they threw away their weapons in dismay and fled. A few of them stayed and put up a resistance, but those were quickly dealt with.

“And so ended the battle and my ancestor became a hero. They started calling him Bullroarer for his deed and his victory was celebrated in the Shire for many years.” His eyes flew over the assembled dwarves and he didn't seem very surprised when he found out that everyone was listening to his story. 

“You know, an interesting thing about Bullroarer Took is the fact that he never held any sort of official position in the Shire. The title of Tháin was held by his older brother, who had been too scared of the goblins to do anything about them. With Shire in danger and no one to lead them, Bandobras had stepped up and decided to protect the land himself.” 

His gaze slid back to the three young dwarves. 

“I suppose that if there is anything to take away from this story, it is this: one doesn't need any fancy titles to be able to do great things, just like simply having a title of some sort doesn’t make you great. It's your actions that speak for you and make you who you are, not the names that other people give you.” 

The dwarves sat in silence for a moment, digesting the story before Kíli spoke up.

“So this Bandobras – he was the younger brother?”

Bilbo nodded, obviously amused that this particular detail was the first thing Kíli had latched onto. 

“Yes, he was the younger of the two.”

Kíli's mouths stretched into a triumphant smirk and he nudged Fíli in the ribs with a meaningful look.

“See, Fíli? He was the _younger_ brother.”

Fíli shoved him back and quickly turned to look back at Bilbo in an attempt to ignore Kíli's smug grin.

“How come he was so strong?”

“He was a lumberjack,” Bilbo said. “He spent most of time by swinging an axe and carrying tree trunks. I think he even won an arm-wrestling match against a dwarven blacksmith once, so one good hit with a club didn't pose much of a problem for him.”

“And you are this hobbit's descendant?” Ori asked, looking a bit wide-eyed.

Bilbo sighed.

“Sadly, no. I am descended from the older brother, the Tháin.”

“Who is the Tháin, anyway?” Fíli said, valiantly trying to ignore Kíli’s hand that was poking him in the side. “Is he like a king?”

“No, he’s the King’s Steward,” Bilbo said. “He’s the highest authority in the Shire and the chief peacekeeper. The title has been handed down in the Took family for more than a thousand years.”

“Could you be a Tháin, too?” Kíli asked eagerly. Bilbo chuckled, shaking his head. 

“Possibly, but it is not very probable. I am too far down the line of succession to even be considered. My grandfather was a Tháin, but he had many children and even more grandchildren, so the title passed to his eldest son first. When uncle Isumbras died two years ago, it fell to one of my older cousins, but I'm honestly not sure which one, because there are so many of them. As far as I know, there are at least five cousins in the line before me, so the chances of me becoming a Tháin are very slim.” He smiled at their disappointment. “I wouldn't want the title anyway so it doesn't matter. 

“Why don’t you want the title?” Fíli gave him a considering look. “Isn’t it a great honour to be a Tháin?”

Bilbo snorted.

“Honour it may be, but it’s far too much responsibility for my taste, and I wouldn’t have any time left for my books.”

That prompted laughter from several of the companions. 

“Only you, Bilbo,” Fíli said when he finally stopped giggling, “would turn down a position of power for your books.”

Bilbo shrugged.

“I have no use for power. I am just a simple hobbit and matters like that don’t concern me. No, the title is better left in the hands of someone who can appreciate it properly.

“So you don't have any titles?” Kíli asked, exchanging a mischievous look with Fíli.

“Goodness, _no_ ,” Bilbo said, and the genuine horror in his voice set them off again. 

“Maybe we should give you one, when this is over,” Kíli suggested with a playful grin and danced away from the kick Fíli tried to give him. “Something fancy, to go with the cro-”

He didn’t get to finish the sentence, because Fíli pounced on him, tackling him to the ground, where he started tickling him mercilessly. Kíli’s squeals of laughter were soon cut short by Thorin, who stormed over and gave them both a lengthy lecture about danger and the importance of laying low. 

Needless to say, there wasn’t any more laughter to be heard that night.

*****

Waiting on the doorstep was mind-numbingly boring. The past few weeks had been marked by bouts of excitement and feverish activity as everyone searched for the possible location of the door, but now that they had found it and nothing interesting was happening, the mood had quickly grown sombre again.

While the others puttered around the camp behind him, preparing their bedrolls beneath the standing stone, Glóin sat on a watch on the edge of the small green terrace, bored out of his mind. Today he had already polished all his axes three times, stoked the fire twelve times and in a fit of desperation even borrowed a thread and needle from Ori to try and mend his socks, despite the fact that hated sewing with the passion of a thousand burning suns. His attempt at fixing the holes in his socks had left him with several annoying lumps in places where the holes used to be, and since he couldn’t come up with anything else to busy himself with, there was nothing left for him to do but sit on his arse and glare into the slowly gathering dusk.

He let his gaze slide between the camp and the valley below (and occasionally the sky), alternately watching his friends and the outskirts of Mirkwood. Nearly all the dwarves were in the upper camp with the exception of Bombur, who had stayed below to look after the ponies. As he threw another look at his friends, Glóin suddenly realized that Thorin was nowhere to be seen. Before he could make up his mind whether he should go and try to find Thorin before the night fell, Balin walked past, giving Glóin a friendly nod. 

As it turned out, Thorin hadn’t wandered very far – when he leaned to the side a bit, Glóin could hear the echo of his voice coming from the walkway above. He and Balin weren’t talking loudly enough to be heard in the camp, but their voices carried well enough for Glóin to make out their words without much difficulty.

“Have you spoken to him yet?” Balin asked.

“I have spoken to him several times, if you must now. We talk every day.” Glóin thought that Thorin sounded awfully put-upon.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know what you meant,” Thorin said. A moment passed before he gave an exasperated huff. “No, I haven’t asked him yet, nor do I intend to anytime soon.”

“Why not?” Balin asked, obviously baffled. “What is stopping you? Surely you must know that he wouldn’t refuse you, if you made the offer to him honestly.”

There was a moment of loaded silence that made Glóin desperately wish that he could see Thorin’s face. This way he could only guess what the dwarf was thinking. It was a while before Thorin replied and when he did, it was with heart-breaking honesty.

“I’m little more than a beggar at this point, Balin. What do I have to offer him beside my family heirloom and a death by a dragon?”

“Oh for-” Balin seemed lost for words. He recovered quickly enough. “Do you really think any of this matters to him? That you will need to impress him with your wealth or your royal title before you can make him an offer? If you really think that, you shouldn’t be courting him at all, because you obviously don’t know him well enough.”

“No,” Thorin sighed. “I know he doesn’t care about any of that. He has made that more than clear. Still, I would like to be able to offer him a home and a position worthy of his status. I will ask him once I am crowned King Under the Mountain. Until then it would feel like I am begging for his affection without having nothing to give in return.”

Thorin and his love of melodrama.

If Glóin’s eyes could roll any harder, they would have popped out of his sockets and bounced down the mountainside all the way into Mirkwood. 

_Had he himself been that overdramatic when he had courted Nora?_ Glóin couldn’t help but wonder. For the sake of his own dignity, he desperately hoped that he hadn’t - otherwise it wouldn’t be any surprise that she had refused him for so long, just like it was no surprise that the hobbit looked more confused than charmed by Thorin’s attempts at courtship. It was clear that Thorin was really trying – he made it a point to talk to the hobbit every day, probably in the hopes of forging a similar bond with Bilbo to the one that the hobbit had with the other companions - but no one who watched him could deny that this was an area he was woefully unequipped for. 

His current conversation with Balin more than proved that.

Glóin had to admire the older dwarf’s restraint. If it had been him leading that conversation, he would have had a hard time keeping his face straight, but Balin just sighed. Glóin could vividly imagine him shaking his head as he did it and when he next spoke, it was in a tone that one normally uses when explaining basic concepts to small children. 

“Thorin, relationships don’t work like that. You don’t have to drown him in gold to make him love you. Just because you have finally started to see his worth doesn’t mean that he himself has changed. He will treat you the same whether you’re a king or a simple blacksmith – the only thing _you_ need to do is to treat him well. He is not hard to please.”

Thorin sighed.

“I will think about it.”

“That would be wise,” Balin replied. “However, be careful not to dally over your decision for too long. If you don’t say anything, he will leave and you will never see him again. He has no reason to stay here once the quest is over.”

“No, he doesn’t,” Thorin said quietly. 

“Then you better give him one, if you want to keep him by your side.” Balin said briskly. “I am going to go and see how the others are faring. Don’t brood here for too long – the night isn’t far away.”

Less than a minute later Balin’s silhouette appeared around the corner, treading carefully along the narrow walkway. He threw Glóin an amused look as he passed, probably aware that Glóin had heard the conversation, but didn’t make any kind of comment on it. 

Glóin privately thought that Balin should get a lot more than a fourteenth of the treasure, for all the work he was doing for the Company. Keeping Thorin sane and getting him to behave reasonably was a full time job - one needed nerves of steel and a great deal of good humour to be able to put up with his tantrums. Glóin himself wouldn’t do it for all the gold in the world. He liked Thorin well enough, in small doses, but being in his company constantly for several months on end was...trying, to put it mildly. 

Despite what the others might believe, Glóin hadn’t been too eager to join Thorin on his quest. Sure, he like the occasional pub brawl or a good hunt as much as the next dwarf, but there were miles of difference between the occasional fist-fight and a months-long quest that was likely to end with a nasty death by dragonfire. Glóin was a family man first and foremost and the well-being of his wife and son had always been a priority for him. 

Their life in the Blue Mountains wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t very glamorous, either. The mountain was cramped with all the dwarves who had settled there after the fall of Erebor and while Glóin made sure that they never went hungry, there was only so much money he could make working as a sword-smith in such a small community. Although their lack of wealth had never bothered him much, he still couldn’t help but hope to give his family a better life one day.

While he might have a (admittedly deserved) reputation as a bit of a hothead with a temper that could run as bright as the furnace in his workshop, he had never been one to rush his decisions when they concerned things that really mattered. He had been one of the first people to be asked by Thorin, but one of the last to give their answer. After Thorin’s initial request he had spent several weeks pondering the question while he worked on the blades and axes that Thorin had commissioned from him for the journey. 

His first impulse had been to flat out refuse Thorin’s invitation – after all, unlike the rest of the companions, he had a family to provide for and couldn’t afford to just walk off into a faraway land and get himself killed. It was only after Óin had come over for a dinner and had spent the evening reminiscing about the glory of the lost dwarven kingdom that he started to even consider it. To this day he still remembered Gimli’s excitement when Óin had announced that they were all going to move to Erebor, once he helped Thorin reclaim it. 

After that it had been impossible to say no when Gimli turned to him and asked whether Glóin was going on the quest, too. Nora had looked a bit worried at the news, but hopeful as well, so hopeful, so he was left with no choice but to go and inform Thorin of his decision. Dragon aside, it hadn’t been that terrible a choice. If they really did manage to reclaim the mountain, it would be a blessing for everyone involved.

And so he had gone with Thorin, Mahal help him. Now he could only pray that they all survive this mess.

_To be continued..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thorin utterly fails at romance. It is so much fun to write him, because he is just hopeless at all this. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed the peace while it lasted, because in the next chapter it all goes to hell. From that chapter onwards I stop just filling in the book and start rewriting instead, so you can look forward to the whole Arkenstone mess and the ensuing fallout among the Company. 
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who has left kudos or comments on this (my mind boggles at the numbers) – your feedback makes me incredibly happy. I was a bit worried about working on this fic, since it’s so much harder to write than the Unexpected Proposal, but your support gives me the courage to keep on posting :) 
> 
> The next chapter will be out on this Saturday, December 14.


	9. Fíli

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Thorin’s arrogance and Bilbo’s stubbornness, it was inevitable that their tempers would clash eventually. Kíli had been predicting it from the start, gleefully anticipating his uncle getting chewed out by a tiny halfling. When the argument finally happened, however, it was much less amusing and lot more terrifying than either of them had expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter now has Fanart! You can see it [here](http://nazgullow.deviantart.com/art/Discovering-Mr-Baggins-Fili-426448697). Many thanks to the talented Nazgullow for the illustration!

If somebody had bothered to ask Fíli about his first impression of Erebor, his answer would be: dark. After they had sat terrified in stifling darkness of the tunnel for what felt like forever, they had ventured into the main hall filled with gold. The darkness there wasn’t any less dark, just more airy, hinting at the enormity of the cavern around them. The dragon smell was overpowering, driving tears into their eyes, but they soon forgot all about stench and danger when the light of the torches fell onto the enormous piles of gold.

Fíli had never seen so much gold in his life, and he suspected that most of the others hadn’t, either. They stopped to gaze in wonder at the seemingly endless mountains of gold and gems and jewellery, and soon they were all crawling around the chamber and stuffing their pockets full of treasure. They would have forgotten about the dragon completely, if it weren’t for Bilbo’s warning. 

They had left the treasure behind with some displeasure, but even Thorin had to admit that it was foolish to linger in such a dangerous place, when they didn’t know where the dragon was. For all they knew, Smaug could be lurking around the nearest corner, waiting to ambush them when they walked outside, their eyes blinded by the sudden brightness of daylight. As they passed through the corridors, the torchlight gave them glimpses of the once mighty dwarven kingdom.

What had once been one of the proudest, richest realms in Middle-Earth was now a stuffy tomb, full of mould and dust and old bones. They passed dozens of corpses on the way, lying among the remains of their armour, left behind as silent witnesses to the horrors of the dragon’s rampage. The closer they got to the entrance, the more bones they came across, until they had to step carefully to prevent crushing any of the remains. It was a gruesome sight and it sobered them greatly, driving out any mirth they had felt at the sight of the treasure. 

Seeing the daylight again had been an enormous relief after the gloom and danger of the mountain. They spent the night on the Ravenhill and in the morning they were overjoyed to learn that the dragon was dead and some of their food supplies were still salvageable.

While the others went back inside the mountain to start working on the defensive wall, Fíli was glad for the chance to leave the dragon stench behind and spend a few days under the open skies. The tales Thorin had told him as a child had always described Erebor in all its splendour - a mighty kingdom gleaming with rivers of gold and mountains of gems. The Erebor they had managed to claim back was a miserable dark hole, a graveyard made of polished stone, and Fíli had very little desire to return inside. 

Kíli agreed with him in that aspect. Their initial excitement from finding all sorts of wonderful crafted weapons and musical instruments had long passed and they took their time returning back to the mountain, lingering beside the Running River. They would have stayed there longer if it weren't for the raven who brought them the news of an advancing elvish army. It was with some reluctance that they gathered the supplies and set out on the trek back to the mountain.

They came back to find the wall before the gate already standing, made with speed and skill to withstand even the most determined attack. The only one waiting for them was Bilbo, who quickly ran off to get a few more dwarves that would help him pull Fíli and Kíli with their packages up into safety. The dwarves worked silently, which surprised Fíli a bit and Bilbo looked troubled, but didn't say anything. Once Fíli and Kíli were back in Erebor, the others departed, heading Mahal knows where. 

Bilbo took a careful look around before he stepped forward and gave Fíli a hug.

“Thank Valar you're here,” he muttered into Fíli's shoulder. Fíli pulled back to be able to see his face, worried by the hobbit's tone.

“What's wrong?” He exchanged a quick look with Kíli, who seemed as baffled as he himself felt. Bilbo just shook his head.

“I'll tell you somewhere else,” the hobbit said, stepping towards Kíli, who hugged him with enthusiasm. “Just put the bags in the room to your right, where we keep all our supplies, and I'll explain everything.”

They put the food supplies away and followed Bilbo into the mountain. He led them through the entrance hall and up several fights of stairs, towards the living quarters. He walked with the certainty of someone who knew his way around the place, which wasn't very surprising, since he had already spent almost a week living in Erebor. They followed him through a narrow corridor and into nicely-spaced rooms, which might have once served as living quarters for some wealthy merchant's family. 

“What happened?” Fíli asked once the door swung shut behind them.

“Everyone's gone mad, that's what happened,” Bilbo told them, a hint of desperation in his voice. “They all talk about gold all day long, gold and nothing but gold. At first I thought that it was just your typical dwarvish strangeness, but they have been like that for days now without any signs of anything changing.” He sighed unhappily. “They barely talk to me anymore and some of them don't even seem to notice that I am here. When I try to talk to them, they get all absent-minded and start talking about treasure.”

He gave them a helpless look.

“I don't know what to do to break them out of it. I have tried everything, but nothing seems to work. They seem to be lost in a world of their own.”

“Gold-fever,” Fíli muttered. “I was afraid it would happen.” 

“Can you do something about it?” Bilbo asked. Fíli exchanged a worried look with Kíli.

“We can try,” he told Bilbo, “but I can't promise you anything. Gold-fever is a sickness of the heart that cannot be easily cured. We'll speak to the others and see how bad it is. Maybe one of us will be able to come up with something.”

Bilbo's expression turned relieved. 

“Thank you. I almost thought that _**I**_ was the one who was going mad when they stopped speaking to me.” He walked over to the fireplace and stoked the fire, until it was crackling merrily. “You should probably start with Bombur – he's the one who seems the least affected by all this. He spends most of his time sitting in the entrance hall, guarding the food supplies, so he didn't have much contact with the treasure hoard.”

“We'll see what we can do,” Fíli promised.

“What is this place?” Kíli asked, looking around. Despite the many decades of neglect, these rooms looked almost habitable compared to the rest of the mountain.

“That's where I live for the moment,” Bilbo said. “The others are mostly staying in the treasure hall while one of them holds guard at the entrance. I was getting sick of looking at gold and the rooms near the gate are cold, so I settled here. It's not far from the entrance and the bedroom has a fireplace. Nobody seemed to mind me settling here, so I did.”

“It's nice,” Kíli said. He gave the hobbit a look. “Would you mind terribly if we stayed here with you? The rest of the mountain seems...well...creepy.” 

“Not at all,” Bilbo said. “I was thinking of making some stew for dinner with some of the salted meat we have. Would you like some?”

Their journey had been long and a warm meal was a luxury they hadn't had for more than a week, so they didn't even pretend to consider the offer for the sake of politeness.

“Yes, please,” they said together, giving the hobbit identical sunny smiles. Bilbo gave them a small smile in return and went to pick up a bucket.

“I'll go get some water, then. Make yourselves at home.”

It took him less than half an hour to put together a dinner for three.

“You really are a wizard,” Kíli murmurred blissfully around his piece of pork as he scraped out the last drops of stew from the bowl. “Being able to turn cram into a nice soup has to be a work of magic.”

“Don't talk with your mouth full,” Bilbo chided him automatically, but he looked quite pleased with the compliment. “This is hardly magic,” he said, gesturing to the soup. “A few pieces of pork, a bit of water and cram. If you boil it well enough, you get a nice hearty stew. The cram actually tastes quite well this way.”

“It does,” Fíli nodded. “It's a good thing we stayed here with you, or we would be forced to chew it dry like the rest.” 

“I'm glad for the company,” Bilbo said, rising from the table to gather the bowls. “You two can take the bed in the bedroom and I will put my bedroll here by the fireplace.”

“Or, you could sleep with us,” Kíli suggested casually, making Fíli choke on his piece of cram. When Bilbo started sputtering at the suggestion, Kíli rolled his eyes. “Oh, not like _that_. What I meant was – the bed is big enough for six people, so the three of us should be able to fit on it comfortably.” Since Bilbo still looked unconvinced, Kíli pulled out his trump card. “We would all be a lot warmer that way.”

Bilbo turned to look at Fíli, waiting for his opinion.

“You know that Thorin won't like this,” Fíli warned his brother. Kíli waved his concern away with a careless hand. 

“Thorin is mad as a hatter right now, so he has no right to criticise anything. I'll deal with his tantrum when he wakes up, if necessary.”

“ _Will_ he wake up?” Bilbo spoke up tentatively. 

“He should,” Fíli said. He tried to give the hobbit a reassuring smile, but didn't think it looked very convincing. “The gold-fever usually passes within days or weeks, so most of them should snap out of it soon, but there have been a few cases where it never passed.”

“Thrór?” Bilbo guessed with a grimace. Fíli nodded grimly. 

“Thorin has always feared that he would end up like him one day.” He sighed. “And now he has, Mahal help him.” 

Bilbo shot a curious look between the two of them.

“This will sound terribly rude when I say it and you have to pardon me for asking it, but why aren't you two...?” he trailed off, probably not sure how to end the sentence without sounding horribly insulting.

Kíli raised an eyebrow. 

“Going crazy, too? Cuckoo? Barking mad?” He smiled in amusement when Bilbo blushed. “We haven't spent much time in the treasure room and we've been away for a few days, which helped clear our heads a lot. Besides, we're both young and neither of us cares about gold all that much. If we take care to avoid the treasure room, we should be fine.”

Bilbo nodded, accepting the explanation.

The three of them prepared for bed, crawling under the dusty furs with a sigh of bliss. The fire in the hearth had died down to flickering embers and the room filled with a pleasant semi-darkness. The dwarves had put Bilbo in the middle, each one of them lying on one side of the bed facing the hobbit, a good foot of space between them. Bilbo lay stiffly on his back at first, obviously uncomfortable, but once he convinced himself that nobody was going to do anything indecent to him, he slowly relaxed, rolling on his side towards Kíli.

Fíli was well on his way towards falling asleep, when he heard a quiet whisper.

“Promise me you won't go mad, too.”

“We won't,” Kíli murmurred sleepily. “I promise.”

*****

Fíli and Kíli's attempts to make the Companions return to sanity had been all completely unsuccessful. They had tried everything – talking, jokes, insults, pranks – but nothing seemed to work. They had even made Glóin trip and fall flat on his face during one of their more desperate attempts, but instead of getting mad and ripping them a new one as they had expected, the red-haired dwarf simply got up and continued on his way, muttering under his breath about carats and gold prices.

Bilbo had been right - the others were living in a world of their own and unless one wanted to discuss the treasure, they were blind and deaf to everything around them. Thorin had recognized Fíli and Kíli at first when they had come into the hall, urging them to come closer and look at the tresure with him, but soon he had forgotten all about them as he returned back to his search for the Arkenstone. 

The arrival of the army from Lake-town only made everything ten times worse. 

While before the fever had been more or less harmless, causing the dwarves to putter around the treasure room and spend whole days digging through piles of coins and old junk, now they had a new gleam in their eye that Fíli found a bit frightening. They had all taken to singing war songs and sitting around the entrance hall, sharpening the old blades that they had found in the dragon hoard. 

He and Kíli soon started to avoid the other companions altogether and instead began exploring the upper levels of the living quarters, which had remained mostly untouched by the dragon's rampage. Bilbo followed them around most of the time, still looking unhappy about the general situation, though his mood improved a little when he discovered the collection of books in the royal quarters (unfortunately for him, the doors to the library had been sealed against the fire and were still impassable). 

The negotiations slowly deteriorated, with Thorin even going as far as to try to shoot the elvish messenger with an arrow, and yet nobody besides the three of them seemed disturbed by it - all the others were too busy with rolling around in gold and singing old songs to pay any attention to the events outside. Thorin eventually ordered everyone to search for the Arkenstone and his spirits lifted - he started walking around the mountain with a small golden crown on his head, singing about the treasure and Erebor’s old glory, his sonorous voice filling the empty halls with melody. 

Fíli privately thought Thorin that was being awfully melodramatic about the whole Lake-men situation - a few piles of gold could have easily solved the problem, especially since the Lake-men had no idea how much gold there really was (and Thorin would barely know the difference if a few hundred coins got donated) - but his uncle remained stubbornly opposed to the idea, refusing to budge. 

“I wish mum was here,” Kíli said quietly one night after they had gone to bed. Bilbo was already dozing between them, worn out from his evening watch. “She wouldn't stand for any of this.”

Fíli sighed.

“No, she wouldn't. She would probably punch Thorin if she could see what he is doing these days.”

“It would serve him right,” Kíli muttered. “He's acting like an idiot.”

“It's too bad we can't do anything about this,” Fíli said. “If only there was some way to either wake up Thorin from his reverie, or make the Lake-men go away.”

“We've already tried everything,” Kíli pointed out gloomily. “It's no use.” He fell silent for a moment, staring moodily at the ceiling. When he spoke again, there was a note of wistfulness in his voice that Fíli had never heard from him before. 

“Why are we still here, Fíli? What are we doing here? We have already helped Thorin get back the mountain. What else is there for us to do? Thorin might be happy here, because he's blinded by madness and nostalgia, but I don't like it here. It's not a home, it's a creepy old crypt.” He gave Fíli a pleading look. “I want to go home, Fíli.”

In the low light from the fireplace Kíli looked impossibly young and deeply unhappy. Before Fíli could decide how to answer him, Bilbo stirred a bit.

“Come here,” he murmurred, drawing the younger dwarf into a sleepy embrace. Kíli went gladly, burrying his face in Bilbo's chest and wrapping his arms around the hobbit's back.

“I want to go home,” he murmurred into Bilbo's shirt.

“So do I, Kíli. So do I,” Bilbo replied, running a gentle hand over Kíli's hair. Kíli made a choking sound that sounded a bit like a sob and burrowed closer, melting under the hobbit's comforting hand. The two soon fell asleep, still holding each other while Fíli lay awake, watching them.

He and Kíli hadn't shared a bed since they were children, but in the oppressive atmosphere of the mountain they both welcomed the closeness. It was the only source of comfort they had in this cold place, so far from home. Here, in their little cocoon of warmth and peace, they could almost pretend that everything was fine and Thorin wasn't losing his mind for a few pieces of gold. Almost.

Gold fever was a dangerous thing even for regular dwarfs, but leading the hand of a king, it could cause catastrophic damage. Moria hadn’t been the first kingdom to fall because of a king’s greed, nor the last. It had been this madness that had driven Thrór to make that desperate attempt to reclaim the halls of Khazad-dûm in a battle that had wiped out a good third of their populace. The same sickness that had then caused Thráin to lose his mind and abandon his people in a time of their greatest need, leaving his young son to take care of an entire nation of starving people.

And now it seemed that it was Thorin's turn to fall. Fíli could only hope that when he did, they wouldn't fall with him.

*****

The longer the siege lasted, the worse everything got.

Both the hobbit and Fíli tried to speak to Thorin several times about the situation, trying to make him see reason about the request of the Lake-men, but the dwarf’s head was full of thoughts of gold and the Arkenstone and he paid him little mind. After his fifth unsuccessful attempt to draw Thorin's attention Bilbo threw up his hands in frustration and stormed off, disappearing for a whole afternoon.

Bilbo's mood grew gloomier with each passing day and he started speaking to them less and less, keeping to himself. He could often be seen sitting on the wall at the gate, gazing into the west with a wistful expression on his face. Sometimes he even ventured into the treasure hall where he watched from afar as Thorin reveled in his gold, lost to the world. 

What a contrast it made to the days on the dragon’s doorstep, where Thorin could barely keep his eyes off the hobbit! Fíli remembered how when Bilbo brought back the first loot from the dragon’s treasure, Thorin had promised him mountains of gold and treasure, nearly asking for his hand in his excitement over Bilbo’s success. Even when they had first entered the mountain, Thorin had still hovered around Bilbo, dressing the hobbit in mithril and trying to shower him with the most precious crafts to be found in the hoard despite the Bilbo’s apparent disinterest in the riches. 

_Did something happen between them in that tunnel?_ Fíli wondered. A promise, or maybe something more? The hobbit had blushed an awful lot when they had finally climbed out of the mountain and Thorin had had a strange proprietary gleam in his eye that hadn't been there before. How ironic would it be if Thorin had finally managed to muster his courage, only to mess up everything right after by going crazy?

Whatever he and Bilbo might have once had was now lost, swept away by lust for gold - and there was nothing Fíli could do about it. He could only hope that this whole mess would be over soon, for better or for worse.

After the message came about Dáin’s approaching army, Bilbo became restless, pacing around the entrance hall in agitation. Finally, when he was unable to bear the oppressive gloom any longer, he walked out of the gate to get some air. When Fíli went after him less than ten minutes later, he found him standing alone by the wall, his small silhouette framed by the light of the setting sun. The hobbit was staring into the valley at the rows of tents, looking deeply unhappy. Fíli came to stand beside him.

“You’re troubled.”

“I don’t like this,” Bilbo said. “Sitting barricaded inside like thieves.” He shook his head in exasperation. “Why can’t we just give the men some coins and let them go in peace? I don’t understand why Thorin is making all this fuss about a bit of gold, especially since there is so much of it lying inside the mountain.”

Fíli sighed.

“I don’t understand it, either, but uncle has always been rather irrational when it comes to elves.”

They stood in silence for a moment, looking at the sea of tents in the valley beneath them. From this high up the camp looked like an anthill, bustling with life as small figures in armour walked busily among the tents. There were several hundred of them, armed for war. If they clashed with the dwarves from the Iron Hills, it would be a disaster. 

But what could be done to prevent bloodshed when Thorin refused to listen?

“I cannot let them all die, Fíli.” Bilbo said quietly, voicing Fíli's thoughts. “I cannot let your kin and the elves massacre each other just because Thorin is too proud to part with a bit of gold.”

“I know.” Fíli turned his head to look at him. “Do you have a plan? I tried to come up with something, but didn't manage to find anything that would work. Uncle is deaf to both pleas and arguments with the Arkenstone clouding his brain.”

“The Arkenstone.” Bilbo sighed, shooting a quick look around to make sure they were alone. He lowered his voice into a whisper. “I have a plan that will force Thorin to give up a portion of the gold, but it will make him terribly mad at me. It is very likely that he will hate me forever for it.” He gave Fíli a side glance. “I think you know what I'm talking about.”

Fíli nodded.

“I've had my suspicions, but I wasn’t sure if you really have it in your possession.”

“I found it right at the beginning.” Bilbo’s gaze fell to his clasped hands. “I meant to give it back, but when Thorin started acting so terribly, I decided to hide it instead and use it as the last hope to convince him. It seems that time has come.” He turned to face Fíli fully. “Are you going to stop me, now that you know?”

It must have taken Bilbo a great deal of courage to admit to stealing the Arkenstone, especially since he knew how close Fíli was to Thorin. It had been a gamble to put his trust in Fíli, knowing that the dwarf could easily take the stone away from him. Fíli felt deeply honoured at Bilbo’s trust.

“No,” Fíli shook his head. “I’m not blind to my Uncle’s madness. He has passed beyond reason. It’s sad that it has come to this, but I can see the necessity.” He laid his hands on Bilbo’s shoulders, looking him firmly in the eyes. “You have my full support. Kíli’s too. No matter what happens, no matter what terrible words Thorin says to you when he finds out about what you did, Kíli and I will always be your friends.”

He reached into his shirt and drew out a small silver pendant inlaid with sapphires. Taking Bilbo's hand, he gently laid the jewel on Bilbo’s palm.

“We had planned to give this to you later, for a completely different occasion, but since things have gone so bad and it’s possible that I may never get to speak to you again, I’d like you to have this now.”

“What is it?” Bilbo inspected the delicate jewel with awe.

“It was our grandmother’s.” When Bilbo started to give it back, Fíli caught his hand gently, curling his fingers around the hobbit’s smaller ones. “Please, take it. It would mean a lot to us both if you wore it. Take it and remember us. If everything turns out well in the end, you can return it later, if you wish.”

Bilbo gave him a long, searching look, before he lowered his eyes, accepting the gift. 

“Very well, I will wear it. I _really_ hope our predictions are wrong.” Bilbo put the chain around his neck, the silver shining on his chest for a moment before he hid it under the mithril coat. After he made sure that the pendant was hidden, the hobbit took a step forward and put his arms around Fíli in a hug, clinging to him with no small amount of desperation.

“Thank you.” 

Fíli hugged back, feeling a little terrified at the thought that he might never see Bilbo again. What if Thorin banished him? What if Dáin’s dwarves fought the elves anyway and Bilbo got caught in the fray? 

He put his chin on top of the hobbit’s curls, closing his eyes, and let himself pretend, if only for a minute, that everything would be all right.

*****

With Thorin’s arrogance and Bilbo’s stubbornness, it was inevitable that their tempers would clash eventually. Kíli had been predicting it from the start, gleefully anticipating his uncle getting chewed out by a tiny halfling. When the argument finally happened, however, it was much less amusing and lot more terrifying than either of them had expected.

The allied host came to the gate once more, headed by Bard and Thranduil, who were flanked by an old man carrying a wooden box. Fíli thought the figure looked rather familiar, and breathed a small sigh of relief when he recognized the nose under the man’s hood. 

Gandalf had come back, thank Mahal. The wizard wouldn’t let anything terrible happen to them.

However, not even a wizard could prevent Thorin’s temper from boiling over when he saw the gem lying in the casket at the hands of his enemy. 

“How came you by the Arkenstone?” Thorin shouted, his expression thunderous.

“ _ **I**_ gave it to them.” Bilbo stepped forward, looking terrified and defiant at the same time.

Thorin took a step toward him, his hands making an aborted movement like he wanted to strangle him, but stopped himself at the last moment. Instead he balled them into fists at his sides, shaking with rage.

“How _dare_ you steal the Arkenstone from me and give it to our enemies? Especially since you know how much the stone means to me.”

Bilbo raised his chin and stood his ground. 

“You said that we could choose our portion of the treasure. I chose mine and used it as I saw fit. I would have given the stone back, but you were being unreasonable, refusing to pay the lake-men their reparations.”

“So _this_ is how you repay my generosity?” Thorin’s voice turned sharp, all his attention focused on the hobbit now. “With betrayal? I would have given you all the treasure you wished for, had you only asked.”

Fíli had the uncomfortable impression that the argument was quickly turning from simple war reparations into something far more personal. If Thorin had been in his right mind, he would be horrified to discuss such a private matter in front of an audience.

Bilbo looked unmoved.

“I have asked you repeatedly to consider Bard’s request. You refused. Fíli and Kíli asked you as well, trying to make you see reason. Did you listen to any of us?” Bilbo’s voice got progressively louder, his frustration with Thorin’s obstinate refusal to give the men their due overriding his sense of propriety. 

“There is nothing to consider. I do not barter with someone who comes armed to my gates.”

Bilbo’s patience run out and he snapped.

“Do you care so little for your friends and family that you would rather let them starve to death than give the men a bit of your gold to rebuild their city? You claim to be a king, yet what sort of king are you when you refuse to be fair? When you deny help to those in need? When you don’t repay kindness of those who had been kind to you?” 

Fíli could hear the dwarfs behind him shuffling uncomfortably, but didn’t turn to look at their expression. His gaze was fixed on Bilbo, who stood proud and defiant in front of Thorin, his anger and self-righteousness overcoming any fear he might have felt. 

Thorin looked positively murderous.

“How dare you speak to me such?” he roared. “How dare you insult me, you miserable thief?” He stepped forward and grasped Bilbo by the front of his jacket, shaking him. “I should throw you from the wall for what you’ve done.”

Fíli heard several gasps from the dwarfs around him and from the corner of his eye he saw Kíli start forward to help the hobbit, but Dwalin caught him by the arm, shaking his head. This matter was strictly between Thorin and Bilbo and they had no right to interfere.

With more courage than Fíli felt at that moment, Bilbo raised his head and looked Thorin straight in the eye. 

“Is _this_ how you are going to rule Erebor? Get rid of those who do not agree with you? I am not one of your subjects, Thorin Oakenshield, and you are not my King. I can speak to you however I wish. Right now, your madness is making you behave like a tyrant and I want nothing more to do with you.”

Thorin let out an inarticulate scream of fury and raised Bilbo into the air over the edge of the wall, the hobbit’s weight no match for his strength. Beneath them several of the elves cried in alarm and crowded closer to the wall, prepared to catch the hobbit if he fell. Fíli realized he was holding his breath.

Amazingly enough, Bilbo looked completely calm. His anger had left, leaving him looking resigned. His voice was quiet when he spoke, but still carried easily over the silent crowd.

“Are you going to kill me, Thorin?”

They stayed like that for a moment longer, poised on an edge of a knife. Myriad different emotions ran over Thorin’s face before he settled on contempt. Finally, slowly, he returned the hobbit back on the wall, setting him down with more force than necessary. 

“Go now and never come back. I never wish to see your face again, traitor.”

“Will you give the men their share of the gold?” Bilbo was unyielding.

“YES!” Thorin barked. “Now get down from the wall or I throw you down.”

“As you wish.” Bilbo gave him a mocking bow. “My service for you is over, though I have received little gratitude for all I have done for you. You can keep your treasure.” 

With one last disdainful look at the hobbit Thorin turned on his heel and stormed off into the mountain. The assembly at the wall let out a collective breath of relief when he disappeared from sight. Gandalf stepped forward, pulling back his hood.

“Well,” he said, “that went as badly as it could have. I am afraid that Thorin’s mind has been fully ensnared by the gold-fever.” 

Bilbo sighed, reaching for his backpack. 

“It was worth a try.” With Thorin out of sight, Bilbo had deflated, the argument leaving him looking tired and sad. He paused at the edge of the wall, looking back at the Company.

“I am really sorry we have to part like this, my friends. I hope we can all meet again, under happier circumstances.” He gave them a small sad smile and climbed down with some help from the elves.

The dwarfs remained on the wall, watching Bilbo’s silver-clad figure grow smaller in the distance, until it vanished completely. 

Bilbo Baggins had passed out of their reach and there was nothing more they could do for him. Now they could only wait, and pray for hope.

_To be continued..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is the reason why I wrote this fic. The Arkenstone scene simply begged to be written with a slightly slashy undertone and with a Bilbo who doesn't squeak and cower in the face of Thorin's wrath. I thought it would be interesting to add a bit more subtext to the scene beyond just “Bilbo stole a piece of rock”. I'm not normally a fan of boasting, but I have to say that I'm really proud of this chapter. The anger was hard to write, but so, so worth it. Now I can only hope that the rest of the fic measures up to this.
> 
> Before someone asks – all interactions between Bilbo, Fíli and Kíli in this chapter are purely platonic. It could be really easy to turn this into a F/B/K slash, since those three adore each other, but I thought it would be a lot better to have Bilbo as a comforting figure for two homesick young dwarves instead.
> 
> In the book we don't see the dwarves again until the battle next day, so the next chapter will deal with the ensuing fallout within the company. Needless to say, nobody is happy with Thorin. 
> 
> The next chapter should be posted on Tuesday, December 17. Feedback is welcome as always, as are kudos :)
> 
> P.S.: I finally saw the second movie and while I liked it well enough (except for the horribly tacked-on romance subplot), I thought that it's missing a heart a bit. I didn't feel any closer to any of the dwarves at the end than I had when the first movie ended. Even Bard and Tauriel are better fleshed out than most of the Company, which is a shame :/


	10. Bifur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It seems you will have your battle after all, Thorin Oakenshield.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has a warning for violence (BOFA), just to be on the safe side.
> 
> This chapter now has Fanart! You can see it [here](http://nazgullow.deviantart.com/art/Discovering-Mr-Baggins-Bifur-426670394). Many thanks to the talented Nazgullow for the illustration!

The afternoon after the horrible confrontation passed slowly. Every minute seemed to drag on forever and the sun remained stubbornly high in the sky, illuminating the entrance hall of the mountain in its entire terrible glory. Bifur hadn’t paid much attention to the interior of the mountain before, too busy with admiring the piles of treasure and building the wall, but since they had nothing to do but sit on the doorstep and brood that day, he now had plenty of opportunity to examine his surroundings. 

Had he never really noticed the piles of bones lying everywhere? Bifur thought as he walked through the halls, meandering aimlessly. The dead had never bothered him before, because the thrall of gold had kept him from paying too much attention to the rest of the world, but now, with the prospect of a battle hanging over their heads, the skeletons of long-dead dwarves suddenly seemed to be everywhere, their toothy grins serving as an uncomfortable reminder of their mortality.

Bifur felt like had been woken from a very long dream. One moment he had been happily counting precious gems and polishing his new armour and the next he had stood on the wall and watched in horror as the hobbit laid their madness bare at their feet. 

Thorin’s refusal to comply with Bard’s terms had sounded completely logical before. Why should they pay ransom to someone who occupied the mountain with force? The gold was rightfully theirs – after all, it had been their quest that had led to the demise of the dragon and Thorin was the King under the Mountain by blood. Why should they diminish their shares, only to hand their treasure into the greedy hands of the elves?

Bilbo’s words had served a horrible wake-up call for them all. 

They weren’t the rulers of a mighty kingdom. No. They were just a band of rag-tags sitting on their gold among piles of old bones in a musty tomb. They hadn’t even killed the dragon, for Mahal’s sake – they had just been lucky enough to be the first ones to arrive to the mountain after the dragon’s death.

The mood of the company had been sombre after the hobbit’s departure, his sudden absence a shock to them all. Some of the older dwarfs had grumbled about betrayal and the Arkenstone at first, their minds still caught up in the gold-fever, but as the day passed and the sickness began to leave them, they started to see the wisdom of Bilbo’s decision and the depth of Thorin’s (and their own) madness. Even Dwalin, who had never seemed to like the hobbit much, looked displeased with Thorin’s decision. 

Thorin himself was nowhere to be found – he had disappeared right after the scene at the wall and hadn’t been seen since. Bifur thought that he was probably holed up somewhere, brooding over treasure. The rest of the companions sat around the entrance hall in silence, staring into space as each of them battled their own demons. Fíli and Kíli sat huddled together in a corner, looking miserable.

Unable to bear the gloomy mood any longer, Bifur had gone wandering through the corridors, hoping to clear his head of the last remnants of the gold-fever. It took several hours for the sickness to disappear completely from his mind and when it did, the pleasant haze of oblivion that had kept him from seeing straight disappeared with it. While before he would have happily spent the rest of his life counting coins and rubies, now the mountain felt stifling, the walls closing around him, the skulls of his ancestors grinning at him in mockery.

In the end he found himself standing back at the wall, his feeling of restlessness driving him to seek refuge under the open sky. The stars had already come out and the air was chilly with oncoming winter, reminding him of all the time he had lost under the thrall of gold. Even though the fever was gone, he still felt antsy, uncomfortable in his own skin. He spent several long moments just standing with his eyes closed, breathing deep. 

When he was finally feeling more like himself, Bifur decided to return back to the others. He had spent the whole afternoon on his own and was now curious to discover how the others were faring. The entrance hall was empty but there was a light and the sound of raised voices coming from one of the side doors. It seemed that they had moved the party while he’d been away.

The Companions were gathered in one of the guard rooms, sitting around a long wooden table. Judging by the plentiful yelling and hand waving that was going on, the emotions were still running high and there was an undercurrent of tension in the room that made Bifur uncomfortable. The dwarves all paused when he stepped into the door, keen eyes studying him for a moment before they greeted him. Bifur's gaze flew over the assembly and found one person missing.

“Thorin?” he asked no one in particular. 

Balin shook his head sadly. “He still hasn't woken up.”

Nodding in understanding, Bifur sat down and the conversation resumed.

“I hope Thorin doesn't show himself today,” Kíli said, his usual smile absent. “I don't think I can look at him without wanting to punch him in the face for what he did to Bilbo.”

“Don't be so harsh on him, laddie,” Balin said, trying to pacify the young dwarf. “The gold-fever can drive one to say and do terrible things.” 

“Thorin _threatened to kill him_ ,” Kíli shot back. “He almost _did_ kill him.” He paused, shuddering at the memory. “I don't think I can forgive him for that. Fever or not, what he did was horrible.”

“It _was_ horrible, I won't deny that,” Balin conceded. “But you cannot lay the whole blame on Thorin. The gold-sickness is incredibly powerful – it overrules your mind and turns you into a completely different person. The Thorin we know would be horrified if he saw himself act like that.”

Most of the dwarves nodded in agreement, but Kíli still looked sceptical. 

“Have you ever got so drunk that you didn’t know what you were doing the previous night, but then you woke up in the morning and it all came rushing back and made you want to crawl a hundred feet underground and never come out again?” Bofur asked him.

Kíli tried to pretend ignorance, but Fíli leaned over to him and whispered something in his ear. Bifur didn't catch the whole thing, only the word “birthday”, but it was enough to make Kíli turn bright red and duck his head in embarrassment. Bofur gave him a knowing look.

“Waking from the fever is like that, headache included. Now imagine that, but a hundred times worse.” He shook his head. “Thorin is in for one hell of an awakening. All the gold in this mountain wouldn't be enough to make me trade places with him.”

Balin gave Kíli a look. 

“Believe me, laddie, there will be no need to punch Thorin over this, because he will happily do it himself.”

Kíli didn’t look like he entirely believed him but let the matter be, turning his attention back to his dinner. An awkward silence settled over the Company, nobody knowing what to say. 

“Does anybody else have a headache?” Bofur asked finally. Several of the dwarves nodded. 

“I have the mother of all hangovers,” Glóin groaned. “I feel like that one time when I drank an entire bottle of elvish spirit on a bet, only much worse. I think I would hurl if I someone showed me gold right now.”

“It does feel like a very long pub crawl,” Bofur agreed. He turned to Fíli. “How long have we been here, anyway?”

“It’s been almost twenty days since the dragon died,” Fíli answered.

“Damn,” Bofur breathed. 

Fíli nodded.

“You have missed at least two weeks.”

“It feels like we only found the treasure yesterday,” Dori said.

“For you, maybe,” Kíli muttered. “It’s been ages for us.”

“How come you two weren’t affected as well?” Ori gave them a curious look. “You weren’t, were you?” 

Fíli shook his head.

“No, we managed to keep our wits. Bilbo helped us a lot with that. He warned us about the fever when we first came here and then made sure that we didn’t catch it as well.” He sighed. “I’m not sure if we did an equally good job for him. He’s been acting a little strange these past few days.”

“What do you mean?” Balin asked.

“He would stop speaking for several hours and just stare into space or wander off and disappear for half a day,” Fíli said. “But I’m sure it’s nothing. He was probably just feeling down about all this. I don’t blame him.”

“So he’s really gone?” Ori asked in a small voice. 

Fíli nodded. “I think he’s staying with Bard.”

“So if there is a battle between Dáin’s folk and the elves…” Bofur began. 

Nori grimaced. “He’ll be right in the middle of it.” 

“Is there nothing we can do to help him?” Bombur asked. 

Balin shook his head.

“I don’t think so, laddie. Not while Thorin is still out of his mind.” 

They fell silent for a moment as everyone got the same, traitorous idea, but no one felt brave enough to voice it. It was Dori who finally spoke.

“Why don’t we just leave Thorin to roll in his gold and go after Bilbo instead?” 

Even though most of them had been thinking it, they still looked horrified when they heard it said out loud. 

“We can’t just leave Thorin!” Bombur protested. 

“Why not?” Dori challenged. “If he doesn’t wake up then what does it matter to him if we’re here or not? He would ignore us either way.”

“We cannot leave our king,” Dwalin said firmly.

“But he’s not really a king right now, is he?” Nori asked, causing everyone to gape at him. “He stopped being a king the moment his eyes fell on that hoard. He was an honourable man before, but now he’s nothing more than a deranged treasure hunter.”

“What do _you_ know about honour?” Dwalin growled. “You’re nothing but a thief - a selfish bastard who only looks out for his own interests, but bails out the moment things start looking hairy. Would you sell Thorin out if someone promised you enough gold for his head? I bet you would.” He stood up, sweeping his gaze over the assembled dwarves. “We are all staying here. We all swore loyalty to Thorin when we started this quest, remember? We've sworn to stand by him until the end, no matter what.” He gave Nori a scornful look. “But I guess _you_ wouldn’t know loyalty if it bit you in the arse.”

They barely saw Nori move. One moment he was sitting in his chair, seething, and the next there was a dagger stuck in the wood between Dwalin’s outstretched fingers and Nori was leaning into Dwalin’s space over the table, his eyes gleaming dangerously.

“I have served Thorin for the past sixty years, you brainless idiot,” he ground out. “You were just too thick to notice.”

Dwalin was clearly trying his best not to gape at him.

“You what?” 

Nori gave him a withering look.

“How do you think he has managed to stay alive for this long, when there are so many people after his head? It certainly wasn’t thanks to you.”

Dwalin’s eyes flickered between Nori’s face and the dagger stuck in the table, which had a strangely ornate black handle. His face paled by several shades.

“You- you-” he appeared lost for words, while the others just looked on in confusion.

“Yes,” bit out Nori. “So don’t you _dare_ lecture me about loyalty.” He drew back, sheathing the dagger before the others could take a good look at it. He sat down, glancing around at the baffled dwarves. “There’s a _lot_ that I’m willing to do for Thorin, but I refuse to blindly follow a madman. If he doesn’t wake up by noon tomorrow, I’m going after Bilbo.” 

“I’ll go with you,” Bofur offered. 

“You would rather follow a hobbit than an heir from the line of Durin?” Glóin asked, but he didn't look angry with the notion. If anything else, he seemed to be genuinely curious about Nori's answer. Nori nodded.

“Yes, I would, especially when the heir of Durin is a raving lunatic.” Dwalin growled at that, but Nori paid him no mind. “You know, you may not have noticed and he himself may not have realised it, but Bilbo has been leading this whole enterprise for a while.” At their questioning looks he elaborated. “It was he who saved us from the spiders, got us out of prison and paid the Lake-men for our stay, not Thorin. It was he who discovered that door and went down to chat with a dragon while the rest of us sat around, twiddling our thumbs. Bilbo has led us for months now and did it well.”

The others fell silent, digesting the words.

“Bilbo paid the Lake-men?” Dori asked. Fíli nodded.

“He paid for both our stay and the supplies for the journey. I doubt that Thorin even knows about that.”

“So why are the Lake-men still here?” Dwalin asked. “They already got paid. We don't owe them anything.”

“Their whole city got destroyed,” Balin said quietly. “They came here looking for help. Will we turn them away, like the elves did to us when we lost our home? The Lake-men treated us most generously when we stayed with them. It would be only decent to repay that kindness.”

An echo of Bilbo's words rang in Balin's speech, reminding them again of the whole horrific scene that had woken them up in the first place. Bifur himself could still see the picture vividly in his mind – Thorin holding the hobbit over the precipice, the dwarf’s grip the only thing standing between Bilbo and death. Back then they had all stood frozen, too shocked to react, and could only watch helplessly as their king threatened to kill their friend. 

Were they going to stand by again and let bloodshed happen because they felt too scared to go against Thorin’s wishes?

“You know, we still have our shares of the treasure don't we?” Kíli spoke up slowly. “Why don't we just pay Bard from our portions?” He gave them a look. “Thorin can't tell us what to do with our own gold.”

Most of them looked up, intrigued with the idea, but Óin and Glóin started grumbling about diminished interests. Kíli rolled his eyes at their complaints.

“There is more gold in that hall than any of us could spend in a hundred lifetimes,” he told them. “What does it matter if we give a bit of it to the Lake-men?”

They still looked hesitant, but finally nodded. Balin’s eyes ran over the table.

“Does everyone agree with Kíli's idea?” Everyone nodded, even though some did so with reluctance. Balin gave them a smile. “Splendid. That is dealt with, then. We can send a raven to Bard tomorrow and tell him that we are willing to negotiate. Unless Thorin does something foolish, like telling Dáin's dwarves to attack on sight, we should be able to resolve the situation without anyone getting killed _or_ anyone leaving.” He gave a pointed look to Nori, who nodded. “We should get some sleep now. Tomorrow will be a long day.”

They dispersed, hunting down their backpacks and bedrolls. Óin and Glóin built up a fire in the middle of the guardroom using pieces of old broken furniture and they all laid down around it, their heads still full of the day's tumultuous events. Fíli and Kíli shuffled into the room a little while later, carrying their things.

“Now that I think of it, I don't think I ever saw you two sleep down here before,” Bombur told them when they walked in. 

Kíli shook his head.

“No, we stayed with Bilbo. He has rooms upstairs.” He bit his lip, his expression growing tight at the reminder. Fíli put a hand on his arm, steering him gently into the corner where the two of them lay down a little way away from the others, whispering intently.

It was a long time before anyone fell asleep that night.

*****

Morning came, bringing new hope for everyone involved. The charged mood from the previous evening was gone, their solution to the Lake-men problem giving them hope that they might be able to avoid the battle entirely after all. They sent out the raven to Bard as soon as they found one and went to breakfast, trying valiantly to pretend that there weren’t two empty seats at the table. But try as they might, the reality of the situation was hard to ignore.

Bilbo was still gone. Thorin was still nowhere to be found. 

Nobody had seen Thorin since the previous noon, but even though they were starting to worry about him a bit, no one was eager to go looking for him. By silent agreement they decided to eat first and search for Thorin later. 

In the end they didn’t have to.

The breakfast was almost over when they heard the sound of slow, heavy footsteps coming from the hall outside. They all straightened in their chairs and exchanged nervous looks, but nobody spoke. Less than a minute later Thorin appeared in the doorway, pausing in surprise when he saw them sitting there, as if he couldn't quite believe that they were real. He remained standing on the doorstep, obviously unsure of his welcome. 

“Why are you still here?” he asked wearily. Balin raised an eyebrow.

“Where else should we be?” 

Thorin shook his head at Balin's casual tone, his lips twisting with bitterness.

“You should have forsaken me for what I did.”

“And what good would that do?” Balin asked mildly. “What is done is done. We were all caught by the gold-fever, so we hardly have the right to judge you.”

Thorin gave them one more careful look before he slowly came inside the room, sitting down at the end of the table. He looked pale and shaken, his face haggard from his battle with the fever. His eyes were bloodshot and he looked like he had aged a hundred years in a single night. He sat slumped forward over his breakfast, staring at the tabletop with unseeing eyes. 

The dwarves around him exchanged uneasy glances over his head. They had been prepared to rip into him in Bilbo’s defence, but now that he sat in front of them looking like he was going to his own execution, that idea just seemed incredibly wrong. Thorin's entire posture spoke of remorse and it seemed that no words they could use would ever be as harsh as those he had already used on himself. 

An uneasy silence settled over the room, nobody knowing what to say. It was Thorin who spoke at last, his voice so quiet that they barely heard him.

“I have watched my grandfather nearly get eaten by the dragon because he couldn’t bear to part with his treasure,” he said slowly. “I have seen the madness creep into my father’s eyes and swore that I will never end up like him - never let myself get so enthralled by gold that I would abandon my own family. I have failed them and I have failed you.” He looked up at them, his face full of despair. “I have failed _him_. How can he ever forgive me?”

They all shifted in their seats, not knowing how to respond to something like that. None of them had ever seen Thorin look so...defeated.

“Bilbo knew what he was doing with the Arkenstone.” Fíli spoke up. “He was aware that you might react badly.”

Thorin looked at him in surprise. 

“You knew about his plan?”

Fíli nodded. 

“He came to me the day before yesterday and confessed what he was planning to do. I gave him my blessing.” 

“You let him take the Arkenstone?” Thorin’s eyebrows climbed, but he didn’t seem angry.

Fíli raised his chin defiantly. 

“I was given a choice between a piece of rock and a good friend. I chose my friend. As should have you.”

“Yes, I should have.” Thorin said quietly. He slumped forward, burying his face in his hands. “What have I done?”

“You have lost any claim you had on him, tenuous as it was,” Balin said. “He would be right to never forgive you or speak to you again, though I doubt he would hold such a grudge.”

Thorin's head bowed in shame.

“I should shave my head for this,” he mumbled, his hands tugging at his hair. 

“No, no shaving.” Despite any words he might have said the day before, Kíli quickly stepped forward, prepared to intervene if Thorin started doing anything foolish. 

“Nevertheless,” Thorin reached for his knife and cut off one of his braids in a flash, handing it to Kíli. “I no longer deserve to wear these.” 

Kíli stopped his hand when he reached for the other braid. 

“One is enough, Uncle. Bilbo has no idea what the braids mean, so there’s no point in cutting them all off.” He laid the strand of hair on the table before Thorin. “You can give it to him yourself after the mess with the Lake-men is over.”

“If he’s willing to see me at all.” 

Kíli gave him a hard look.

“You have a lot to make up for.”

Thorin sighed, fingering the severed braid. 

“Yes. I do.”

*****

A large raven landed on the wall a few hours later, clucking his beak in impatience as he waited for the dwarves to gather around.

“What news do you bring?” Thorin asked him.

“It seems you will have your battle after all, Thorin Oakenshield,” it said. 

“What do you mean?” Thorin demanded. “Did the elves decide to attack? I have already asked Dáin to wait.”

“The elves are the least of your troubles right now,” the bird replied. “There is an orc army marching on Erebor from the North. They will be here shortly after noon.”

The dwarves exchanged alarmed looks. 

“How many are there?” 

“The Grey Mountains have emptied, as has Moria. There must be several thousands of them. The orcs have united under the banner of Azog the Defiler and to make matters worse, they have made an alliance with Wargs, so there are two armies standing against you.” He gave Thorin a grim look, as grim as a bird can be capable of. “The odds are not in your favour.”

“What is the situation downstairs?” Nori asked.

“The negotiations weren't going very well, but now that they have heard about the orcs, the elves, men and dwarves have decided to join forces.” He looked at Thorin. “Your so called “enemies” have all agreed to fight to protect your mountain. I hope you appreciate the irony of the situation.” 

He made as if to fly away, but Kíli stopped him.

“Wait!” he cried. “What about the hobbit? What is he doing?”

The bird turned back towards them.

“The halfling attended all the negotiations, trying to diffuse the situation between Dáin’s folk and the elves. Now he is preparing for the battle.”

“He's still here?” Fíli asked, worried. 

The raven inclined his head.

“He refused to leave. I believe he is planning to stand with the Elvenking.”

“He will be killed for sure!” Ori said in dismay.

“But that is not your concern anymore, is it?” the bird asked. “After all, you sent him away.” 

Before they could say anything else, it took off, flying back towards Ravenhill. 

Most of the Companions went back to the guard room to try and to come up with a way to help the army below, but Bifur remained standing by the wall, watching the commotion in the valley. 

The last time he had been in a battle like this, he got hit with an axe to the head and almost died. To this day he still didn't remember much from that day besides pain and seeing nothing but red. The healers had treated him for what felt like hours, making him feel like his head was falling into a thousand pieces. In the end they had decided to leave the axe where it was, because taking it out would have killed him. 

It was only when he had woken up several days later that he discovered that he couldn't speak. He still understood what other people told him, but had lost the ability to form words of his own. He had eventually managed to relearn Khuzdul after many years of trying, but Common speech had never come back to him. It was incredibly frustrating, especially since most of Middle-Earth didn't understand a word of Khuzdul. 

Normally he tended to avoid speaking as much as he could, because he knew that many people found his voice disconcerting - i was better to stay silent than become a target of curious looks. During the course of their journey, however, Bifur realized there was someone else besides his two cousins that he would like to talk to, if he could. Many times he had caught himself wanting to talk to Bilbo, only to stop himself at the last minute, because the hobbit wouldn't understand him. 

He could only watch the others chat with the hobbit and envy them the ease of their communication. He sat with Bofur sometimes when his cousin talked to the hobbit, but it wasn’t the same. If only Bilbo could learn Khuzdul, the two of them would be able to talk, too. Bifur would tell him all about his dogs and the toys he used to make back in Blue Mountains and make him laugh with tales of Bofur’s drunken exploits. 

_And now I might never get that chance_ , he thought as a flock of large Mirkwood crows soared overhead, circling the mountain in eager anticipation of the oncoming bloodshed. 

A battle was coming and they could do nothing to stop it.

*****

They stood on the wall and watched the orcs scale the slopes of the mountain, the elven archers barely keeping them at bay. They watched as the army of men got slowly overwhelmed by the throng of orcs, forced to close their ranks and switch to defensive just to keep the orcs from running over them. They watched their kin get swarmed by wargs, the heavy axes slaying beast after beast, only to have three more mutts take its place.

“Shouldn’t we be fighting, too?” Kíli asked quietly.

“What difference are thirteen dwarfs going to make?” Dori said. “The mountain is swarming with orcs. What hope do we have against such enormous numbers? We would be killed before we even reached Dáin and his men. No, we have a much better chance to survive here, protected by the wall. This way we’ll be able to see anyone who comes within fifty feet of the gate.” 

Bifur ran out of his patience. He had been watching them wait and bicker for hours, while in the valley below their kin lay down their lives to defend their mountain. He’d had enough of hiding. Securing a sword on his belt and taking an axe in his hands, Bifur started towards the wall.

“Where are you going?” Bofur called.

Bifur turned.

“I’m going to help Bilbo.”

“Have you gone mad?” Dori yelled. “You will be shot by orcs the moment you stick your nose out.”

Bifur raised his chin.

“I’ll take my chances. Better die a fool than a coward.”

“Are you calling us cowards?” Glóin stepped forward, hand on the handle of his axe. Bifur drew himself up to his full height, momentarily forgetting about his dislike of speeches.

“Yes, I’m calling us a bunch of cowards, because that’s what we are right now. Hiding like rats behind a wall while others fight to protect our mountain.” He threw his arm in the direction of the battlefield. “Bilbo hates violence, yet he willingly stayed for the battle, because he didn’t want to leave his friends behind. Right now, he’s down there, fighting for us.” He let his gaze slide over the present dwarves. “Are we going to let him fight alone, while we sit holed up here? Shouldn’t we fight for him, too?”

To their credit, most of his companions had the sense to look chastened. 

He didn’t wait for their response, turning back to start climbing the wall.

“Wait!” Thorin called. Bifur looked up. The king made several steps toward him. “Come back here. There is no need for you to go alone.” 

Bifur looked at him doubtfully. “You will come with me?”

Thorin heaved a heavy sigh. 

“Yes, I will. I and whoever else is willing. I have so little honour left that if I died hiding here, I would be thrown out of the halls of my ancestors the moment I stepped there. Besides, the orcs would climb up here sooner or later anyway. We might as well go and meet them on our own terms.” He looked at the assembled dwarves. “If we are to die, let us die with honour.” 

He straightened up and once again he was a king, a leader standing tall and proud in front of his people. His features still looked tired from his fight with the gold-fever but his eyes were clear, shining with stone-cold determination. A cheer rose among the assembled dwarves and Bifur could see the same resolve mirrored in their eyes. 

The Company of Thorin Oakenshield was going to war.

Bifur waited for them as they put on their armour and chose their weapons. He rolled his eyes a little when he saw the attire they had chosen - since they were prepared to go to their death, they had gone full out with the gold and gems, their mail gleaming like peacock feathers. Bifur’s own modest mail of grey steel made him look like a mouse next to their splendour, but Bifur didn’t mind the comparison, too glad that they had chosen to go with him. 

They assembled at the wall, looking at Thorin expectantly. The king looked them over, eyes full of pride.

“I will not keep you long with needless words. Though the battle below may seem hopeless, let us remember that there is always hope. We have been in several situations that had seemed nearly impossible, and yet we always managed to escape from them unharmed. Let us hope this is one of those cases.” He looked at the chaos below. “Bilbo and Dáin are down there somewhere. Let us help them in any way we can. If we die in the process, we won’t have to feel ashamed when we step into Mahal’s halls.” He drew his axe, taking a moment to look each of the Companions in the eye. “If this is to be the end, let it be one worthy of songs.” 

A deafening roar rose from the company, the dwarves waving their weapons in the air.

As they prepared the levers to break down the wall, Thorin said quietly: “I am glad you all travelled with me. It was an honour to know you.”

Moments later they broke down the wall while Bofur and Bombur sounded the horns. After that it became complete pandemonium. They burst from the gate at full sprint, weapons shining in the afternoon sun and Durin’s name on their lips. Thorin’s voice filled the valley, his mighty baritone summoning their allies to his side. Many answered his call, clambering to reach him. 

Unfortunately for them, the elves and dwarves weren’t the only ones his voice had summoned. In no time they were surrounded by orcs pressing in from all sides, each one of them eager to be the one to slay the mighty dwarf-lord. Bifur soon lost count of how many heads and various limbs he had cut off. The weapons from the dragon hoard were still razor sharp, even after so many decades of disuse, and they cut through the orc flesh like it was butter.

Time lost all meaning. Bifur’s entire vision filled with orcs and blood and dead bodies, and with each swing of his axe he got uncomfortably reminded of the battle before the gates of Moria. This battle looked nearly identical, dwarves pitted against orcs as far as eye could see - the only difference were the elves and men mixed in the crowd. Blinking his eyes to get rid of the double vision, he ploughed on, cutting down any orc he could reach. As he stepped over yet another body, Bifur vaguely thought that the elves made for much prettier corpses.

Soon it became a struggle just to stay close together. The press of bodies cut Bofur off from the rest of the Company and carried some distance away, so he could only watch in growing horror as Azog stepped forth with his personal guard, bearing down on Thorin’s company. The huge orc had left his white warg behind and fought on foot, flanked by several orcs that were nearly as big as Azog himself. One of them especially bore remarkable resemblance to the Pale Orc, and Bifur thought that it must be Bolg, Azog’s son. The younger orc was nearly as feared as Azog himself, having a reputation that struck fear into the hearts of travellers all over the North.

Bifur tried to fight his way back to Thorin’s side, but the mass of orcs was too dense, refusing to let him through. From his place on one of the slopes he could only watch helplessly as Thorin was driven against a wall, the blows of Azog’s enormous mace raining mercilessly against Thorin’s shield. Fíli and Kíli tried to step in front of Thorin and protect him with their bodies, but were struck down and thrown against a wall, where they remained lying motionless. 

With two more blows Thorin fell as well, his axe dropping from his broken hand. He slumped against the rocky wall of the mountain, his eyes defiant as he watched the orc raise his weapon for the final blow. Bifur heard himself shouting something in warning, but had no idea what it was, the din of the battle and the roar of blood in his ears drowning out his voice.

Suddenly, Azog let out a howl of pain and swung his arms wildly, his mace missing by a wide berth. A tip of a familiar blue sword emerged from the orc’s stomach, running the foul creature through. 

The sword was quickly withdrawn and a second later Bilbo stepped out from behind Azog, nimbly avoiding the orc’s flailing limbs. He was nearly unrecognizable - his face was sprayed with blood of all kinds and his shining armour was nearly black. The most remarkable feature, however, were his eyes, shining with fury as he gazed up at the huge orc. He barely reached Azog’s chest and yet he bravely stepped between Azog and Thorin to face the orc, raising his sword in challenge. 

Azog growled in anger and raised his mace again, paying no attention to the blood pouring from his middle. 

The blow never landed. 

Before the strike could fall and crush the halfling, Dwalin jumped down from a nearby rock and with a mighty roar lopped off Azog’s head with his axe. The mace fell out of the orc’s hands, his headless body flailing for a moment before it landed with a heavy thud in the dirt. The orcs in Azog’s entourage let out wails of dismay, backing away from their fallen leader. Only Bolg stepped forward, towering over his father’s body as he advanced to take his revenge on the dwarves.

He didn’t get far. A ground-shaking growl sounded and the biggest bear Bifur had ever seen came running over the battlefield, tossing orcs and wargs away from his path like ragdolls. He bore down on Bolg and with a single hit of his enormous paw crushed the orc like a bug. He mauled several other orcs from Azog’s entourage before the rest of them threw down their weapons and fled in terror. 

The huge bear then swooped down and with surprising gentleness picked up Thorin and carried him away from the battle. He did the same with Fíli and Kíli before he went back to destroying the battlefield, crushing the orcs under his feet. 

Bilbo and Dwalin used the brief lull in the fighting to exchange a few short words. It looked like Dwalin was trying to persuade the hobbit to stay with him, but Bilbo was stubborn in his refusal. He shook his head and put on the ring, disappearing from the sight. Several orcs fell a moment later and Bifur could only guess that Bilbo was making his way back to the Elvenking, where he had stood before.

A sudden pain brought Bifur’s attention back to his own situation as an orc scimitar sliced his arm, narrowly missing his chest. Soon he was swarmed by orcs once more and forgot about the hobbit completely, too busy with trying to stay alive. When he finally had the opportunity to look around again, he was relieved to find that most of the company was still standing and had flocked around Dwalin. Bifur started making his way towards them, noting with despair that a new wave of orcs had arrived from the north, taking the place of the fallen.

Just as things were beginning to look bleak, Bilbo’s voice rose over the battlefield in a call of hope: “The eagles are coming!” Friend and foe alike watched in amazement as the majestic birds dived down from the sky, wreaking havoc among the orc ranks. The bat-clouds burst and the light of the setting sun shone upon them from the west, blinding the creatures of darkness. The arrival of the eagles had given the allies new hope and they picked up their weapons once more, driving the orcs away from the mountain.

It was several hours before the battle was finally over. The orcs scattered, running heedless into the wild and some of the less-weary elves brought their horses and went after them, slaying the deserters. The wargs had abandoned the orcs long ago, running away to save their hides before the elves could come upon them, too. Those that weren’t pursuing orcs were now searching the field, looking for survivors.

Limping, Bifur slowly made his way to the camp in Dale and was gratified to find that nearly all of his companions had been accounted for and were alive. One of Dáin’s healers had tended to his injuries and Bofur now walked by his side, talking his ear off about the battle. No matter how much they asked around, however, there was one question nobody was able to answer:

Where was Bilbo?

_To be continued..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was long and really hard to write (so many versions and edits!). Funnily enough, the battle was the easiest part of the whole chapter. I didn’t want to veer from the cannon too much, but rather describe the experience through the eyes of someone on the other side of the wall. 
> 
> I won’t leave you with the cliffhanger for too long – the next chapter will be up either on Thursday 19th, or Friday 20th, depending on how fast the work goes.
> 
> Thank you so much for all the comments and kudos you left me on the last chapter (mind boggles at the numbers)! I was blown away by the response I got. Feedback on this is welcome as always :)
> 
> P.S. For those anxious about the dwarves - I really, really hated what happened to Fíli and Kíli at the end of the book. Since this is my story, I can do whatever I please, so take hope in that :)


	11. Óin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle was over, the righteous had won.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter now has Fanart! You can see it [here](http://nazgullow.deviantart.com/art/Discovering-Mr-Baggins-Oin-427278053). Many thanks to the talented Nazgullow for the illustration!

Thorin was half dead when Bard’s men brought him in. 

Óin went to work at once, inwardly cursing every orc between the Iron Hills and Gundabad with every new wound he discovered. And boy, were they plenty of them – whether it was cuts, bruises, lacerations, or the two arrows buried in Thorin's left shoulder and upper arm - the orcs had truly done a number on him. Óin mentally thanked all the Valar that none of the weapons had managed to slice through any major arteries - if they had, Thorin would be dead by now.

As it was, the dwarf was unconscious and several of the wounds were still bleeding profusely. Gesturing to the elven healer to start with the arrow wounds, Óin tended to the gashes on Thorin's side. Normally he wouldn’t allow an elf anywhere near his work, but Thorin’s life was more important than his pride and Óin knew that he wouldn't be able to close all the wounds fast enough if he worked on his own. Thorin would no doubt protest against being touched by an elf if he was awake, so in this case Thorin's state worked in Óin’s favour – at least this way he could concentrate on his work in peace.

The two medics worked in quiet tandem and soon Óin was completely immersed in his work, getting lost in the rhythm of cleaning the wounds, stitching them and wrapping them in bandages. It was already dark when he tied the last cloth and Óin vaguely realized that the distant sounds of the battle had stopped a while ago. Óin wiped his face in a spare piece of fabric, feeling drained from the long hours of work. 

The elf gave him a nod and walked off, probably going out to look for someone else to treat, but Óin stayed behind, sitting down in a chair beside Thorin's bed to rest for a bit. He knew that it was his duty as a medic to go and help as many others as he could, but the day had been long and the wounded many, and at that moment he felt the weight of his years like never before. Since there was nobody around to judge him for it, he decided to take a moment to just sit and watch the slow rise and fall of Thorin's chest.

Even the golden light cast by the lantern couldn’t hide how pale Thorin was. It worried Óin a little, but was only to be expected after all the blood he had lost. Some of his wounds had been serious but thankfully not fatal and he was still alive several hours after the battle, giving Óin hope that he might be able to survive this after all. 

One of Dáin's healers peeked into the tent some time later, offering to take over the bedside watch, so that Óin could go eat his dinner. Óin hoisted himself from the chair with some effort, giving Thorin one last look before he made his way outside. 

He had done all he could here. Now they could only wait and pray for Thorin's recovery.

*****

The battle was over, the righteous had won.

Óin knew that the light of dawn would fully reveal the horror of it, the ground soaked with blood and endless piles of bodies, but for now the battlefield was mercifully covered by darkness - letting them pretend, if only for a while, that their victory was glorious. 

Unlike most dwarves, Óin saw nothing glorious about death. In his line of work he had seen it a thousand times, in hundred different shapes, always ugly. He didn’t think that violence and wanton death was something to revel in. Wars were sometimes a necessary evil, but the loss of lives was always a tragedy, no matter what race the dead belonged to (except for orcs – nobody in their right mind mourned for orcs). 

As he walked through the camp, he was struck by the silence. Even with his bad ears Óin could still see that there was no celebration being held. No sounds of voices or tones of a harp could be heard in the dark, just low murmurs of the living and the occasional groans of the injured and dying. Those that had survived were now huddled around the fires, their gazes empty and faraway, their eyes filled with the horrors of the battle. 

It didn't take him long to find the tent that had been given to Fíli and Kíli. Bofur and Glóin sat smoking on barrels in front of the entrance and they jumped up when they saw him coming, greeting him with enthusiasm. Even though the tent was quite spacious, there was barely any room left inside because the entire Company had gathered there, anxiously awaiting news of Thorin. Óin was pleased to find that the young princes were both alive and awake – they were both sitting up on their beds, squirming with badly concealed impatience.

“How is Thorin? Is he alive?” the barrage of voices rose the moment Óin stepped inside, loud enough for him to hear even without his ear-trumpet. He raised a hand to quiet them. 

“Thorin is alive,” he said, making everyone slump with relief. “He had many wounds and lost a lot of blood, but he will most likely survive. Tonight will be the most critical but if he holds on until the morning, he should be fine.”

Several of the dwarves came forward to clap him on the back and offer him some salted pork, which he was more than happy to accept because he hadn't eaten since before noon. He lowered himself into a chair in the corner and spent a few blissful moments just eating and relaxing while the others told him tales of the battle.

As it turned out, Thorin had been the one most gravely injured of them all. Fíli and Kíli had been both roughed up by Azog's mace, but neither of them had been mortally wounded. Kíli’s injuries were a little more worrying, since he had a head injury from being thrown against a rock and Fíli had a few broken ribs and a broken arm, but overall they had managed to get off fairly lightly. None of the others had been injured quite as badly, mostly sustaining only cuts and bruises. Ori had a broken arm, too, but he didn't seem unhappy about it – quite the contrary, in fact – he wore the sling like a badge of honour, pleased that he had finally been able to fight in a real battle.

All in all, they felt quite pleased with the situation, because everyone was alive and accounted for. 

Everyone, that is, except for Bilbo. 

“How is Bilbo?” Balin asked when Ori finished describing how Beorn had saved him from a warg. Óin raised his head from his piece of pork to find everyone looking at him. He frowned.

“Why I should I know? I thought he was with you lot.”

“You didn't treat him?” Balin's eyebrow climbed.

“No,” Óin said, “I was with Thorin the whole time. I only left him less than half an hour ago.”

“So you didn't see him?” a note of worry entered Balin's voice. 

Óin shook his head. The others exchanged alarmed looks.

“Maybe he’s with the elves,” Ori suggested tentatively.

“No, he was worried about us.” Fíli shook his head. “Even if Thorin had forbidden it, he still would have checked on us, to see if we were all right.” 

“Maybe he's just resting after the battle,” Bombur said, but it was clear that he himself didn't believe it. Bilbo Baggins was much too stubborn to let something like fatigue prevent him from visiting his friends and they all knew it.

“We can hardly search for him in the dark, anyway,” Glóin remarked, making Kíli sit up on his bed.

“But what if he’s hurt?” the young dwarf burst out. “What if he's still somewhere on the battlefield and needs help, but nobody’s there because everyone has already left? What if he's dying somewhere and we don't know about it?” He was starting to work himself into a fit. “We have to look for him.”

Kíli started to throw away his sheets with the intention of climbing down from the bed, but Dwalin stepped forward, pressing him back against the pillow with a single hand. 

“ _You_ are not going anywhere,” he told the unhappy dwarf. “You still look like death warmed over. You wouldn't be able to even walk out of this tent, much less search a battlefield for an invisible halfling.”

“But we have to _do_ something,” Kíli insisted. “We can't just sit here twiddling our thumbs.”

“We will,” Nori said, standing up. “I'll search the camp, ask around to see if anyone knows anything.”

“I'll go with you,” Bofur offered. “I already asked around when we came here, but it won't hurt to do it again.”

Balin stood up as well.

“I’ll have a few words with the elves - see if they can help us look for him. They may not like us, but they are fond of him. I’m sure they won’t refuse.”

“What about the battlefield?” Fíli asked. 

“We'll have to wait for daylight before we can search there,” Dwalin said. “Besides, the halfling was wearing his magic ring the last time I saw him. He could be anywhere and we wouldn't even know it.”

Fíli nodded in acceptance but Kíli was still frowning furiously, obviously not happy with the situation.

“Let us know the moment you find out something,” Fíli said. 

The three dwarves nodded, turning to leave. Before they could walk out, Bifur spoke up: “I last heard his voice from the Ravenhill, where the Elvenking stood with his guard. Maybe he is still there.”

The dwarves walked out, the flap falling shut behind them. Kíli slumped against the cushions, glaring at the ceiling in frustration.

“I hate this,” he muttered, plucking at the blanket laid over his legs. “I hate that I can't do anything to help.”

“I'm sure there will be plenty for you to do yet,” Óin told him, sitting down at the edge of his bed. “Now let me look at your head.”

He untied the bandages and checked the wound, using the familiar ritual of the treatment to calm the agitated youngster a little. He had been the family healer for more than a century, had been treating Fíli and Kíli since they were born, so he was intimately familiar with Kíli's less than stellar manner as a patient. The young dwarf had always hated being sick, the forced inertia of the healing making him antsy and surly. Now that he was also worried about Bilbo, it would be almost impossible to keep him in bed long enough for his wounds to heal properly.

Thank Mahal Dwalin was there, Óin thought as he rewrapped the bandage. The burly dwarf was sitting in the corner like a silent shadow, watching Óin work with sharp eyes. Despite his outward gruff manner, Dwalin adored the two princes and had always been extremely protective of them, so Óin was assured that when he ordered the two miscreants to stay in bed, their faithful guardian would see to it. 

Satisfied that they were treated well and as comfortable as they could be, Óin rose from his chair.

“I'd better return to Thorin. Someone should sit with him and make sure everything is all right.”

The other dwarves bade him goodnight, most of them already looking half-asleep.

It was well after midnight when he finally got back to Thorin's tent and was glad to find the king still alive, his pulse slow but steady. Thorin was asleep when Óin walked in, but he stirred when Óin went to check his bandages. His eyelids fluttered as he fought to wake up, his eyes focusing on the old dwarf with some difficulty. 

“Bilbo,” was the first word out of his mouth. “Where is he?”

Óin briefly contemplated lying to him, but remembered that Thorin had always disliked falsehood. If it turned out that the hobbit was dead and he had lied to him, the king would never forgive him. He chose honesty.

“We don’t know,” he told Thorin, making no effort to hide the worry in his voice. “He hasn’t come into the camp and nobody has found him yet.”

Thorin’s eyes watered a bit. Óin pretended that it was from the pain. 

He gave the king a moment to compose himself while he checked the bandages on his leg.

“Let me know when they find him,” Thorin said, swallowing heavily. “I’d like to see him, whatever state he might be in.”

Óin laid a gentle hand on his uninjured forearm. 

“I will let you know right away,” he promised. “I cannot give you any false hope, though. Bifur said that he last saw him standing with the Elvenking, but that was at sunset and nobody has seen him since.” When Thorin's eyebrows pulled into a frown, Óin gently squeezed the arm in his grasp. “Dawn is not far away. There will be many searching for him in the morning.”

He made to stand, but Thorin clasped his wrist.

“I need to see him,” he said urgently. “I have so many things to apologise for. If I can never see him again...” He was becoming frantic.

Óin gently dislodged the hand and grasped him by the shoulders to calm him down. 

“I can hardly tell you to stop worrying, but you shouldn’t work yourself into such a state,” he told him gently. “You should be more careful or you will re-open your wounds. There is nothing you can do about Bilbo right now, and you certainly cannot go and look for him when you are barely alive yourself.” He waited for the words to register before he continued. “You should get some rest now. The others have already gone looking for him. They will let us know the moment they find anything.”

After a bit more cajoling Thorin finally relented, laying his head back into the pillows. He stared at the ceiling for a moment, clearly determined to stay awake for news, but his fatigue eventually won, his eyes fluttering shut. Soon he was out like a light, falling into an uneasy sleep.

Óin finished checking the rest of his bandages before he too settled down into the armchair by the bed to get a few hours of much deserved sleep. It had been a very long day.

*****

Commotion outside the tent woke him up some time after dawn. He had slept lightly, getting up several times to check on Thorin, so the sound of raised voices pierced through his slumber easily. He pushed away his blanket with a yawn and climbed out of his armchair to go and see what all the clamour was about.

The light had already turned bright and the burning orange wheel of the sun was rising above the Iron Hills when Óin walked out of the tent to find most of the Company assembled in front of it. They were all watching a tall figure that was walking slowly across the battlefield, carrying someone small in their arms. As the figure came closer, they saw that it was one of Bard’s men, and the shining silver mail was, undoubtedly, Bilbo’s. 

The man walked straight towards them and laid the hobbit down on an empty cot by the fire.

“I found him on the Ravenhill,” he said, “among the elves. He was awake when I came to him and spoke a bit on the way here, but lost consciousness before we got here. It looks like he took a blow to the head.” 

“Thank you for finding him,” Balin told him. The man gave them a nod in return and departed, probably going to bed because he looked exhausted. 

The dwarves clustered worriedly around the cot, trying to take a look at the halfling. Óin shooed them back.

“For Mahal’s sake, give me some space. I cannot work with you lot breathing down my neck.”

They backed off, sitting down on the ground around the fire. 

Óin reached down and carefully worked the bloody helmet off the hobbit’s head. The wound on his temple looked nasty, but thankfully the skull wasn’t broken. It had already stopped bleeding so Óin let it be for the moment, looking for other injuries. The mithril coat had done wonders, diverting blows that would normally be fatal, but there were still several cuts scattered over Bilbo’s skin and many, many bruises. The bruised ribs worried Óin a bit, but none of the wounds were as bad as the head injury.

Just as Óin was finishing the last stitches on Bilbo's head, the hobbit woke up. His eyes fluttered open slowly and he raised a hand towards his head.

“Ow,” he said. “Is that a _needle_?” 

“Almost done, laddie,” Óin assured him. He made quick work of the stitches, tying the thread with several knots. Bilbo sat up slowly with some help from Óin, one hand holding the uninjured side of his head as he tried to blink away the haziness. Suddenly, as he remembered, he shot out his hand and caught Óin’s forearm. 

“Where is Thorin? Is he alive?”

“Thorin is alive,” Balin answered. “He is in the tent right behind you.”

Bilbo’s head whipped around and he flinched as the sudden movement made a flash of pain run through his head. 

“What about Fíli and Kíli? And the others? Are they all right?”

“Everybody is fine,” Óin assured him. “Thorin was the worst off, but he will probably survive. He made it through the night and seems to be recovering. You were the last one everyone was worried about.”

“I was knocked out and didn't wake up until this morning,” Bilbo said. “I'm sorry I made you all worry about me.”

“There's nothing to apologise for,” Balin told him, putting a careful hand on his shoulder. “Thorin has been asking for you since he first woke up. He will be glad to hear that you’re alive.” 

“Will he?” Bilbo asked, raising a doubtful eyebrow. 

“Yes,” Balin said with utter confidence. “I think he would like to see you.”

“I thought he never wanted to see me again,” Bilbo said with a crooked smile. Before they could protest, he raised a weary hand. “Please, don't. I don't want to deal with any of this right now. I just want to know if he is all right.”

“He is,” Balin confirmed. “He woke up from the gold-fever yesterday.”

“That's good to hear,” Bilbo said, sounding a little absent-minded. “I would go to him, but I don’t think I can walk that far on my own. My legs feel like butter and everything’s a bit woozy.”

“Here, let me help,” Dori offered. He stepped forward and picked him up gently. “We can't have you falling on your face in front of all those elves.” 

Bilbo gave him a weak smile and let the dwarf carry him into Thorin's tent. Balin followed them, hovering a few steps behind to make sure that Bilbo was all right. The rest of the dwarves sat idly for a moment, gazing after those three, before several of them scrambled to their feet, hurrying to the tent wall to listen in on Bilbo’s conversation. Óin shook his head at the antics, following them at a much more sedate pace. As the king’s official healer he had unlimited access to the tent, so he had no need to resort to such underhanded means. 

Leaving the others to eavesdrop outside, Óin shuffled into the main room, making a show of puttering around with the salves and ointments while he watched the scene at Thorin’s bed from the corner of his eye. Dori and Balin, who had moved into the corner and were busy preparing another cot for Bilbo next to Thorin's own, were valiantly pretending that they weren't watching the hobbit as well.

Bilbo sat in the chair at Thorin’s bedside, the look on his face a mixture of apprehension and longing as he watched the king sleep. It wasn’t long before Thorin woke up. His eyelashes fluttered and his eyes slowly focused on Bilbo’s figure. He lay still for a moment, as if he couldn’t quite believe that Bilbo was really there before he slowly raised a shaking hand to Bilbo’s face and laid it on the hobbit's cheek, closing his eyes in relief. Bilbo sat in apparent shock for several heartbeats, staring at Thorin in disbelief before he too lifted one of his own hands and gently laid over Thorin’s, giving the dwarf a tentative smile. 

They sat like that for a while, completely forgetting about Óin and the other two dwarves. Finally Thorin spoke, his voice raspy.

“I thought you were dead. Nobody could find you for hours. There is so much I need to apologise for...”

Bilbo raised a stalling hand, stopping the frantic flow of words. 

“Can we please talk about this later?” he said tiredly. “I am really glad that you are alive and I'll be happy to talk to you tomorrow, but I think I need to lie down now.”

He tried to stand but stumbled and would have fallen if Dori hadn’t caught him. The grey-haired dwarf put a steadying arm around his waist before he gently picked him up, putting him onto the cot next to Thorin’s bed that had been brought into Thorin's tent during the night. The hobbit let Balin tuck him under the covers, falling asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. 

Óin turned to see Thorin eyeing the halfling with worry.

“Will he be all right?”

“He should be fine,” Óin said. “Hobbits are surprisingly tough creatures. I think he is just exhausted from the battle.” 

The dwarven king continued to watch him as he wrapped a bandage around the sleeping hobbit’s head and checked his temperature. A few moments later Bofur came inside the tent, Bilbo’s mithril shirt in his hands. 

“What should I do with this?”

Óin waved a hand at one of the empty chairs. 

“Just put it down here, Bilbo can take care of it when he wakes up.”

“No, wait!” Balin stopped him. “Can you try to get it clean? I doubt Bilbo would be terribly happy if he had to wash elvish blood from his armour.”

Bofur paused, shaking the mail out in the air and taking a critical look. 

“You’re right, it’s awfully bloody. There’s elvish blood on it and plenty of orc blood, too. Maybe even Azog’s. Yuck.” He made a face and balled the silver shirt into a bundle. “I’ll see what I can do about it.” 

“Thank you,” Balin gave him a smile. “You should get some rest now. You've been up all night.”

Bofur gave him a nod and walked out, mithril mail in hand. Dori and Balin stayed with Bilbo for a little longer before they too departed, heading out to find some empty bedrolls where they could catch up on their sleep. Óin caught one of Dáin's younger healers and sent him out to fetch breakfast for himself and Thorin before he came back inside, sitting down into a chair between the two beds. 

Bilbo was alive and well, thank Mahal, and he didn't seem to hate Thorin for his outburst at the wall. Óin ladled a bit of his porridge, smiling at his two sleeping patients. Maybe there was hope for them after all.

*****

The day passed slowly. Thorin spent most of it in thrall of uneasy dreams, his brow furrowed with pain. Óin did as much as he could to ease his state, changing bandages and wiping his face with a wet cloth. Bilbo on the other hand slept peacefully, not even twitching when several of the dwarves came into the tent to check on him.

Thorin woke up in the evening, his eyes clear as he watched Óin change the wrappings on Bilbo’s head. The night passed and the next morning came bright and clear and still Bilbo slept. His forehead was hot when Óin put his hand on it and his cheeks were burning red, but when Óin pulled the bandage away, there were no signs of an infection in the wound. In fact, it was healing quite nicely. Puzzled, Óin checked the other wounds. Nothing. He tried to wake Bilbo up, shaking him gently, but the hobbit slept on, lost to the world.

Why wasn't the Bilbo waking up? 

Something wasn't right, but Óin had no idea what it was. Not wanting to needlessly alarm Thorin, Óin rewrapped Bilbo's head and walked out to search for Balin. 

The white haired dwarf smiled at him when Óin came into his tent, offering him some bread and honey.

“So, you finally found some time to tear yourself away from your patients, Óin? And how is our dear burglar today?”

Óin glanced around briefly to make sure nobody was paying much attention to them.

“To be honest, I am not entirely sure,” he admitted quietly. “He hasn’t woken up yet, which is not good when he had a head wound. Maybe it’s nothing and he’s only taking time because hobbits heal differently, but I have a bad feeling about this. I think we should ask Gandalf to take a look at him.”

Balin puffed from his pipe.

“I think that would be wise. The wizard knows more about hobbits than any of us. I will find him for you, so you can go back to Bilbo.”

Óin had just finished checking Thorin’s wounds when Gandalf poked his head into the tent.

“Balin said you were looking for me.”

“Yes.” Óin waved at him to come inside. “Bilbo has been asleep since yesterday morning. I tried waking him up today but he doesn’t respond. He is running a fever, but other than that, there’s nothing wrong with him.” He gave the wizard a questioning look. “Why hasn’t he woken up, yet?”

Gandalf sat down on the edge of Bilbo’s cot and laid one of his hands on Bilbo’s brow, closing his eyes. He muttered a string of words, his forehead furrowing in concentration. On the other bed Thorin turned slightly on his side to be able to see Bilbo better. 

Gandalf’s face was grim when he opened his eyes again and he sat back with a heavy sigh, running a gentle hand over Bilbo’s curls.

“What is it?” Thorin asked.

“Dragon's Breath,” Gandalf said grimly. “It is worse than I thought.”

“What does it mean?” Óin demanded.

“It means,” Gandalf raised his head to look at Óin, “that there is nothing we can do to help him. He will either pull through on his own, or he will perish.”

“What about the elves?” Óin forced himself to ask. It cost no small amount of pride.

Gandalf shook his head sadly.

“They can try, but this is no ordinary malady. Dragon Fever is a sickness of spirit that is not easily overcome. I do not have the skill to cure it fully and neither does anyone else here. I doubt that even Lord Elrond would be able to help much.” He ran a hand over his beard. “I can ask Thranduil to take a look at Bilbo. When he was young, the Elvenking used to fight against the dragons in the Great Wars of the West, back before the land fell into the sea. Maybe he knows something that could help.”

Óin took a step closer to the bed, looking down at the hobbit.

“How did it happen to Bilbo?”

“As you may know, dragons are creatures of magic,” Gandalf said. “They are an ancient and powerful race, created for an evil purpose. Their strength doesn’t lie only in their size and fiery breath, but they have other, more insidious means at their disposal as well. They are cunning and wicked, and can ensnare mortals with their gaze, turning them into living shadows - puppets to serve the dragon’s will. There is a reason why dragons are so dangerous.”

He turned his gaze back to the small figure on the bed.

“It took longer than usual for the sickness to overtake Bilbo’s mind, because Smaug is dead and hobbits are uncommonly resilient. Still, he didn't escape it in the end.” He sighed. “I am sorry this happened to him.”

“You’re _sorry_?” Thorin’s voice had the quality of tempered steel when he spoke. “ _You_ were the one who insisted that he should go on this quest with us.” 

He would have tried to stand up from the bed if Óin hadn’t hurried to his side, pushing him back against his pillow. Thorin barely spared him a glance, all his attention focused on the wizard.

“Did you mention this possibility to him, when you were trying to persuade him to come with us?”

The wizard had the good grace to look ashamed.

“No. However, his case was unprecedented. No hobbit has ever come into direct contact with a dragon. There was a chance that he could be unaffected by it.”

“And if he wasn’t?” Thorin’s voice rose enough for Óin to hear him without his ear trumpet. Óin was almost certain that half the camp was spying on their conversation by now. “Were you just going to sacrifice him? One dead halfling and a few dwarves is a small price to pay for the death of a dragon, is it not?”

“I told you, back in Bag-End, that I cannot guarantee Bilbo’s safety on this journey.”

Thorin's lips twisted bitterly. “And you meant every word.” 

Óin turned away from Thorin.

“Is there any chance he might survive?”

The wizard inclined his head.

“The chance is small, but it exists. He may yet wake up.”

“And if he doesn’t?” Óin asked. Thorin made a small sound of distress behind him, but Óin paid him no mind. His gaze was firmly on the wizard, asking for truth. Gandalf met his eyes unflinchingly.

“Then he will burn. The dragon fire will burn his body and devour his mind, until there’s nothing left.” He stood up, heading for the exit. “Do not lose hope yet. Bilbo has already proven that he has a talent for doing the unexpected. He may surprise you yet.” With that he left, leaving them alone to ponder the gravity of his words.

“Let me see him,” Thorin rasped, rising on his elbows on the bed. Óin hurried to his side.

“Thorin, you’re not well enough to-” The king silenced him with a single gaze.

“If he is to pass into the halls of his forefathers, I would like to see him one last time.”

Óin bowed his head in acquiescence and started to cross the tent to go look for his companions. Before he could reach the exit, however, Dwalin and Balin walked in, their faces grim. Dwalin went to the bed to help Thorin stand up while Balin bustled about the tent, putting together various rugs and furs to make the chair more comfortable for Thorin. Between the two of them they managed to move Thorin from the bed and into the chair, settling him down with great care to avoid pulling any of his stitches.

Once Óin made sure that Thorin was unharmed and comfortable, all three of them bade a hasty retreat from the tent. Óin’s last glimpse into the tent showed him Thorin cradling one of Bilbo’s hands between his own, his lips moving in fervent prayer.

*****

Thranduil appeared several hours later, gliding through the camp with Gandalf in tow. Dressed in his spotless robes, the Elvenking looked incredibly out of place among the grimy warriors who hadn't yet had the opportunity to change out of their battle-stained clothes. His face was carefully impassive but Óin saw the flicker of surprise that ran over it when they entered the tent and found Thorin kneeling by the bed, holding Bilbo’s hand, his head bowed in a silent plea.

Óin gave the kneeling dwarf a weary look.

“You should be resting, Thorin,” he told him gently. “You'll pull your stitches if you strain yourself too much.”

“What does it matter?” Thorin muttered, not bothering to open his eyes. “He's dying.”

The Elvenking visibly paused at that, his eyes widening as he took in the scene before he schooled his featured back into the mask of impassiveness.

“Let me see him,” Thranduil said, making Thorin flinch in surprise. The dwarf's eyes flew open and he clapped a hand over his side, wincing in pain. Óin shook his head.

“What did I tell you about the stitches?” He came forward and helped Thorin stand up, pushing him back towards his bed to make sure that the stubborn dwarf hadn't injured himself any further with his idiocy.

Thranduil perched down on the side of Bilbo's bed, his eyes taking in the hobbit's flushed face. He laid one of his hands on the hobbit's forehead, closing his eyes. Nobody moved for a while, all of them waiting for the Elvenking to speak. 

“How long did he spend with the dragon?” he asked finally.

“A few hours,” Thorin said quietly. “He spoke to the dragon for at least an hour and spent the rest of the time sneaking around the hoard.” Thranduil's eyebrows climbed into his hairline.

“He spoke to the dragon?” The elf asked incredulously. The dwarves nodded. “And he's still alive?” He turned his gaze back to the hobbit with something like reluctant admiration. “Maybe there is hope for him yet.”

“Can you heal him?” Thorin asked, leaning forward despite Óin's protests. Thranduil inclined his head.

“I can try, but I cannot guarantee that he will live. Unlike Elrond, I have never been much of a healer.” 

Thorin nodded in acceptance. “Any attempt is better than nothing.”

“However, I will not do it for free,” Thranduil pinned him with his gaze. “You have to offer me a price first.”

“I will give you all the gems you ask for, if you manage to heal him,” Thorin promised. Thranduil raised an eyebrow. 

“What if I told you that I want the Arkenstone?”

A pained shadow ran over Thorin's face and his lips pulled into a tight frown, but his moment of indecision lasted for less than a heartbeat. He closed his eyes and gave the Elvenking a single, terse nod.

“Yes, you can have it. Just save him, please.”

Thorin's eyes were closed, so he didn't see the surprise on Thranduil's face - but Óin did, and it made him wonder about the Elvenking's motivation. It was clear that the Elvenking hadn't expected Thorin to give up his precious jewel so easily – especially not after they had almost fought a battle over it. Thranduil turned to Gandalf, beckoning the wizard to come closer.

“I do not know how much of the sickness I will be able to heal, Mithrandir,” he told the wizard in a low voice. “A powerful shadow lies on the Greenwood - a darkness that creeps beneath the trees and kills all living things. Outside the forest the dragon has poisoned the land, spreading his plague over the earth. It will be a while yet before the sickness starts to leave these lands.” He nodded towards the hobbit. “This is part of the dragon's blight, too. I do not know if I have the strength to cure this.”

“We have driven the shadow out of Mirkwood and the dragon is dead,” Gandalf told him. “The forest has already begun to heal itself and the earth around the mountain is slowly waking up. All that remains for you to do now is to help speed up the recovery.” He gave the elf a look. “Healing the hobbit would make for a nice start, don't you think?”

Thranduil nodded slowly, bowing his head.

“Get me a bowl of hot water,” he ordered. Bofur ran off while the others crowded around the tent flap, trying to peer inside. The Companions had been waiting in front of the tent ever since Thranduil had walked in, but now that it looked like Bilbo might wake up, they had all rushed forward in excitement. Óin stood up and shooed them away.

“You lot can wait outside. With the elf and the wizard here, it's crowded enough as it is. I'll let you know if anything changes.”

They all frowned unhappily but obeyed, plopping down on the ground in front of the tent. Óin returned back to the tent to find the elf already hard at work, crumbling a mix of dried herbs into the water bowl. The herbs had a nice, fresh smell, and the vapours pleasantly cleared the stuffy air in the tent. 

As the Elvenking bowed over the hobbit and started muttering phrases in elvish, Óin suddenly noticed that the air around him had changed. The light in the tent seemed to turn a little greener and the subtle noises of a forest in spring filled the air, as if the forest itself had come to the field in front of Erebor. The Elvenking himself seemed to glow with a soft inner light and a crown of green leaves appeared on his head as he absorbed himself in the healing process. Everyone was silent as they watched the elf work his magic on the hobbit.

It was a long time before Thranduil moved. When he finally did, the illusion of the forest disappeared along with the leaf-crown and the Elvenking sat back with a tired sigh, looking once more like his usual self.

“I have done all I can. His fate now depends on him alone.” His eyes slid to Bard, who had come inside the tent a good while ago and was now standing quietly near the entrance. “Have you brought the Arkenstone?”

Bard nodded, walking over to Thorin's bed. He held the box in his hands, but didn't hand it over just yet. Instead he looked down at the dwarf, who was resting back against the pillows.

“You don't deserve him, you know,” he said, shooting a brief glance at the hobbit. “You treated him like dirt, but he still went back and saved your life.” He placed the box on the bed near Thorin's hand, giving the dwarf a sharp look. “You have many amends to make.” 

Thorin nodded, reaching for the box with the Arkenstone.

“Yes. I do.”

The dwarf lifted the box with a pained grimace, offering it to the Elvenking. 

“I believe I promised you a reward,” he ground out, pointedly not looking at the box. 

Thranduil took the box with careful hands, lifting the lid to take a proper look at the gem. The light from the stone flooded the tent, illuminating Thranduil's face with a beauty that was almost painful to look at. The Elvenking spent a long moment admiring the gem before he gently closed the lid.

“You are not like your grandfather,” he told Thorin. “He would have never willingly parted with this gem.” He gave the dwarf an appraising look. “There may be hope for you yet.”

He stepped over to the hobbit's bed.

“I believe this belongs to him,” he said with a small smile, placing the box on the bed near Bilbo's feet. Before anyone could say a word, he turned on his heel and walked out, leaving them to gape after him. 

“What on earth was that about?” Thorin asked in bewilderment.

“I believe that was a peace offering, Master Dwarf,” Gandalf told him with a smile. “You would be wise to take it.” 

He gave the Thorin a friendly nod and left as well. Thorin remained sitting on the bed, staring at the box with the jewel in disbelief. 

And through it all, Bilbo slept on.

_To be continued..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you stone me to death for ending this with yet another cliffhanger, let me remind you that there are still **3** more chapters of this story left. No one in their right mind could stretch a funeral into three separate chapters (well, it could be done, but it would be horribly boring) :D
> 
> The Dragon’s Breath is only half made up – the Silmarillion mentions a “dragon-spell” – a charm that dragons could use on humans to bend their will and make them believe the dragon’s words. I only embellished it a bit. This chapter was originally supposed to end with Thorin’s prayer, but I adore Thranduil so I shoehorned him in, making the ending less of a downer. 
> 
> The next chapter will be probably posted on Tuesday 24th (maybe a day later). I’m taking a bit more time to write it, because unlike the other chapters, which had been sitting in my computer half finished for several months, I don’t have a single word written for this one, so the writing will be a little slower. Be patient with me, please, I’ll try to make it worth your while. 
> 
> Thank you as always for your support. The feedback I get always makes me really happy.


	12. Dori

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How curious that of all the races in Middle-Earth, hobbits should prove to be the most resistant to evil.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter now has Fanart! You can see it [here](http://nazgullow.deviantart.com/art/Discovering-Mr-Baggins-Dori-427501216). Many thanks to the talented Nazgullow for the illustration!

For three days Bilbo slept, battling a force greater than himself.

Thorin had to be bodily removed from his bedside in the evening of the second day, because it was clear that he was still weak from his injuries and blood loss and was risking that he would pull his stitches and reopen the wounds that Óin had so carefully closed just a few days before. Being forced into his bed didn’t prevent Thorin from craning his head to watch the slow rise and fall of the hobbit’s chest, anxiously waiting for any change in his state.

Gandalf came to check on them both several times, his eyes sad when they landed on Bilbo’s prone form. Just like he had before, he passed his hand over Bilbo’s brow, muttering words in a long-forgotten language. Every time after he did that, he stood up with a mute shake of his head and walked out of the tent, his shoulders hunched. 

The dwarves from the Company had taken to visiting Thorin’s tent in their spare time, sitting by Bilbo’s bedside in a silent vigil over the sleeping hobbit. When Dori came in for his own visit in the evening of the third day, the sight before him made him stop in his tracks. 

Thorin was kneeling on the floor by Bilbo’s bed, holding one of the hobbit’s hands pressed against his lips, his head bowed in a fervent prayer. Dori had no idea how Thorin had managed to get out of his bed and into such a position on his own, but he didn’t have the slightest inclination to ask the king about that. The expression on Thorin’s face made Dori feel like he was intruding upon something intensely private and he took a few careful steps back, slipping discreetly out of the tent. He sat down on the bench beside the entrance, keeping watch to prevent anyone from going in.

Dori gave the tent behind him a sad glance, his heart aching in sympathy for Thorin’s pain. In his many years, he had seen more than a few dwarves lose their chosen mates both on the battlefield and outside of it, and the process was always heartbreaking to watch. He could only imagine Thorin’s regret at their bitter parting and the fact that he had never had the chance to properly apologise to Bilbo for his words and actions regarding the Arkenstone.

Balin came over to the tent sometime later, but before he could enter, Dori stopped him with a hand on his arm and a shake of his head. Insightful as ever, the old dwarf gave the door flap a knowing glance before he sat down and drew out his pipe, offering to light Dori’s as well. They sat together in a companionable silence, gazing into the deepening night. 

Elvish music carried through the air over the camp, their voices mourning the loss of their kin. There would be time enough for celebrations of their victory later, much later, but now, with the corpses of the warriors still lying unburied and Bilbo teetering between life and death, nobody felt like celebrating. 

Their songs were sad and beautiful, touching the hearts of everyone who heard them. Even though the dwarves didn't understand the words, the message of the music was clear enough. There was grief in it and regret and longing, but hope as well – a promise of healing and new beginnings. 

It was during one of the elvish ballads that Dori heard a whisper of a motion in the tent behind him. He exchanged a glance with Balin, feeling hope rise in his chest. A long moment of silence passed while they waited in suspense, and then they heard Bilbo's voice. It was weak and raspy, but definitely his. 

Dori sighed in relief, giving Balin a grin, but didn't hurry to rise from his seat just yet. Instead he finished his pipe, using the opportunity to give the two in the tent some time alone. He was sure that Bilbo and Thorin had plenty to talk about and didn't need nosy people barging in on them just yet. 

“Should we tell the others?” Dori asked Balin in a whisper. Balin smiled.

“Fíli and Kíli would never forgive us if we didn't. You can go and get everyone, I will help Thorin back into his chair.”

They shared a knowing look before Dori stood up and went to search for the rest of the group. The dwarves tended to be all over the place during the day, helping wherever was needed, but in the evenings the Companions usually gathered in Fíli and Kíli's tent, waiting for news of Bilbo. As expected, he found them all in the tent, sitting around and chatting. Even Óin was there, taking a much needed break from his healing duties to allow Thorin some privacy.

Dori could barely contain his excitement when he poked his head in.

“He's awake,” he told them, causing them all to jump to their feet. 

“Is he really?” Fíli asked eagerly. Dori nodded. 

“I haven't seen him yet, but he was talking to Thorin when I left.” 

“Thank Mahal,” Bofur breathed. He stopped near the entrance and threw a look over his shoulder. “What are you lot waiting for? A written invitation?” 

They all scrambled after him, almost bowling Dori over in their hurry to see Bilbo. Only Fíli and Kíli remained sitting on the beds, giving Óin identical puppy dog eyes. The old dwarf sighed in resignation. 

“You can go and see him, as long as you return back to bed later.”

They both slid down from their cots in a flash, hurriedly pulling on their boots. Dori waited for them to exit before he followed them as well, walking with Óin.

Thorin's tent was bursting in seams with visitors when Dori walked in. The entire Company had squeezed in, crowding around the bed. Bilbo was indeed awake - he was sitting up on his bed, propped against the pillows. He looked rather pale and a bit overwhelmed with all the attention, but very happy nonetheless. His voice was still low and exhausted when he spoke but his eyes were clear and he was smiling.

Thorin sat in a chair by the bedside, gazing at the hobbit with the same look he'd had on his face when he had first stepped into Erebor after a century and a half of exile. It made Dori almost embarrassed to see so much affection displayed so openly, but since all the others were valiantly pretending not to notice, he decided to turn his attention back to the hobbit as well.

The dwarves stayed for a good while and took turns telling Bilbo about the battle while the hobbit listened attentively. Finally Óin stood up, shooing them out of the tent. Bilbo's eyelids had started to droop and it was clear that he was still exhausted from his fight with the fever. When several of them gave him worried looks after he yawned, he smiled in reassurance.

“Don't worry, this should be the ordinary kind of sleep.”

“The last time you said you needed to sleep, you almost died,” Bombur pointed out. Bilbo sighed.

“You'll just have to trust me.”

They still looked unhappy but left eventually to give the hobbit time to rest. By silent agreement they all returned back to Fíli and Kíli's tent, sitting down around the beds.

“I wish we had some ale,” Bofur said wistfully. “This calls for a celebration.”

“Shouldn't we tell Gandalf about Bilbo?” Ori asked.

“He probably knows already,” Balin said.

“And if he doesn't, it won't hurt him to stew for a little longer,” Nori muttered. “This whole mess is his fault in the first place. 

“It is, isn't it?” Glóin said slowly. “I do believe we are going to have a few words with the wizard when he shows himself again.”

“Let's just celebrate for now,” Dori clapped him on the shoulder. “We can chew out the wizard tomorrow.” 

And celebrate they did, not feeling the slightest bit guilty about singing and laughing while the rest of the camp was still in mourning. They could be appropriately sombre again tomorrow but not tonight – tonight they had plenty to celebrate.

*****

Bilbo looked miles better when they came to visit him the next morning. He was sitting up in his bed by himself and he was digging into his porridge with far more enthusiasm than such a bland meal deserved. Thorin was in his own bed this time, but kept sneaking glances at the hobbit as he ate. The dwarves sat around laughing and chatting, keeping the two patients company.

The breakfast was almost over when the flap at the entrance lifted and Gandalf came in, stooping a bit to fit inside the tent. The dwarves moved aside to make space for him and he stopped at the foot of Bilbo's bed, looking down at the hobbit with a pleased smile.

“Bilbo Baggins,” he said, “you will never cease to amaze me. I am very glad to see you awake and well. How are you feeling?” 

“Much better, thank you,” Bilbo gave him a smile in return. 

“That is good to hear. Everyone was very worried about you.” 

“I suppose I will have to thank Thranduil later, won't I?” Bilbo asked. Gandalf nodded.

“Yes. He was the one who healed you.” 

“I know,” Bilbo said. “I was sort of half awake the whole time, so I remember him coming here.”

“What else do you remember?” The wizard looked genuinely curious. Bilbo frowned.

“The fever came on very slowly, so I didn’t notice anything wrong at first. The sickness was like a creeping fog - it sneaked into my mind when I was asleep, ensnaring it bit by bit. For several weeks I dreamt of gold and plunder at night, but even thought the dreams were strange, I always forgot about them in the morning. I was still mostly myself when I was awake and I had plenty of other things on my mind so I didn't pay much attention to it.” 

He looked up at the dwarves. “It’s only the past week or so that I can’t remember all that well. The days all seem to blend together. How long was I asleep?” 

“Three days and two nights,” Balin replied. “You woke up yesterday evening.”

“It feels much longer than that,” Bilbo said, his eyes turning distant. “The dreams seemed to go on forever. My mind was filled with fire and gold and I spent ages guarding piles of treasure and flying over mountains in faraway lands. In one of my dreams I was circling above a beautiful city that was burning in the valley below. It was built of marble and stone and shone like a pearl in the afternoon sun.”

“Dale?” Balin asked quietly. Bilbo shook his head.

“No. This one was much bigger and looked elvish. Armies stood gathered around it, the likes of which I have never seen, and there were shadows of many flying beasts on the air.” He looked up at Gandalf in wonder. “I think I may have seen the fall of Gondolin.”

“Have you?” Gandalf looked genuinely intrigued. “I had no idea that Smaug was so old.” He ran his hand over his beard, lost in thought for a moment. “This is most interesting. I believe Thranduil would love to hear about it, if you're willing to share your tale.”

“Of course,” Bilbo nodded. “I was planning to go see him anyway, if he can spare some time for me.” He threw away his covers, all prepared to stand up from the bed, but Óin hurried forward, stopping him.

“You've only just woken up, laddie. I don't think you should go running after elves just yet.” 

“I feel fine,” Bilbo protested. “I'm still a bit weak from the fever, but there's nothing wrong with me overall. I would like to spend a few moments out in the sun. The fresh air will do me good.”

Óin gave him a doubtful look and made him sit back on the bed while he checked him over. In the end he stepped back, eyeing the hobbit with a puzzled frown. 

“Well I'll be damned. You're fit as a fiddle. The wound on your head has almost healed and the bruises are gone. If I haven't seen you lie here for three days I would never have guessed that you were ill.” He sighed when he saw Bilbo's expectant look. “Very well, you may go outside for a while, but you'll be back in bed in an hour. Bofur will go with you to make sure you haven't run off somewhere.”

Bilbo gave him a smile and slid down from the bed, standing up carefully to avoid getting dizzy. He was just buttoning up his jacket when Gandalf spoke again.

“You hobbits are truly amazing creatures,” he said in admiration. “How curious that of all the races in Middle-Earth, hobbits should prove to be the most resistant to evil.”

Bilbo paused mid-motion, studying the wizard's face with sharp eyes.

“No,” he said resolutely. “Absolutely not. Whatever you are planning - no.”

The dwarves looked confused, but Gandalf tried to put on an expression of innocent bafflement.

“My dear Bilbo, what on earth are you talking about?”

“This,” Bilbo gestured to his face. “You're plotting something again but I'm telling you right now that I won't be part of it. Once was enough.” When the wizard opened his mouth to protest, Bilbo cut him off. “And don't try to involve any of my kinsmen in another one of your harebrained schemes, either. Us hobbits weren’t made for battles and adventures.” He bent down for his backpack and muttered: “And I don’t think my nerves would survive another adventure like this.”

“I don’t think Thorin would allow it, either,” Dori heard Kíli whisper behind him. The king himself was giving the wizard a piercing look, clearly displeased with the idea. Gandalf stared back for a moment before he gave Thorin a nod, yielding. While those two had been caught in a staring contest, Bilbo had finished searching through his backpack and was now clutching a small parcel in his hands.

“What is that?” Fíli asked.

“My gift for Thranduil,” Bilbo replied with a smile. He put his backpack back on the ground beside the bed and started heading towards the exit. Bofur flanked him at once and they slowly walked out, going for a stroll around the camp. 

The rest of the dwarves stayed behind, giving the wizard identical looks of displeasure. They waited until Bilbo was out of earshot before they turned to the wizard, crowding around him to prevent him from leaving. 

“You have a _lot_ to explain,” Glóin said, folding his arms.

Gandalf just raised an eyebrow, not intimidated in the slightest.

“You chose him on purpose, didn't you?” Nori asked. “You were planning this all along. How did you know that he would survive the dragon?”

This time Gandalf did not meet their eyes.

“I did not know for certain, but I was hoping for this outcome.” His eyes shot towards the exit. “And now he has proved me right.”

“And what if he hadn’t?” Thorin asked sharply. “What if he had died in the process?”

“Then I would have lost a very good friend,” Gandalf said solemnly. Before they could start protesting, he raised his hand, silencing them. “You all have to understand that there are many forces at work in Middle-Earth. Powerful forces you know nothing about. I am but one of them. As much as I would wish to, I cannot put priority on one life over many others. Bilbo Baggins had a vital role to play in the recent events and he played it well. He may have woken up the dragon and indirectly caused the destruction of Lake-town, but his actions have managed to save many other lives as well. He has done many remarkable deeds for one so small.”

He sighed.

“For his own sake I hope that he will not have anything else of importance to do after this. He truly deserves a holiday.” He smiled at their disbelief. “I'm quite fond of him, you know. I do not wish him any harm.” 

He ignored their grumbling and walked over to the entrance, peering out through the gap in the fabric. When Dori leaned closer, he could see Bilbo standing some distance away, chatting with the Elvenking. Thranduil was wearing a small smile on his face, his hands carefully cradling something that shone green in the sunlight. Gandalf's smile widened at the sight.

“It appears that Thranduil is quite fond of him as well.” He gave Thorin a look. “Erebor will be a very different mountain with Bilbo here.”

He turned to leave, but Thorin's voice stopped him.

“Why did Thranduil return the Arkenstone? He has coveted it for years – it was the one jewel that he had always envied my grandfather. Why didn't he take it when he had the chance?” He looked honestly baffled. Gandalf's eyes softened when he saw Thorin's confusion. 

“You really do not know?”

“Would I ask you if I did?” Thorin raised an eyebrow. Gandalf chuckled. 

“No. You would not.” He threw another look at the Elvenking before he turned back to Thorin. “It was a test. He wanted to see just how far you were willing to go for the hobbit. He probably would have healed Bilbo anyway, but he wanted to see whether you meant your offer sincerely. Dwarves often have a habit of promising things that they later refuse to give.

“Also,” he continued before Thorin could get huffy, “elves have a soft spot for love stories. Thranduil is no different. He may be a little more jaded than most of his kin, because he has lived for a very long time and seen a lot of tragic things, but he wouldn't wilfully deprive you two of your chance for happiness, when it is in his power to prevent it.”

Thorin pursed his lips.

“I thought he only did it to see me humiliated.”

“Yes, that too,” Gandalf admitted. “I won't deny that it probably brought him some pleasure to see you at your worst, but it certainly wasn't his main motivation. Thranduil may be many things, but he is not evil.” He turned to leave, but before he could push the flap aside, he shot Thorin one last look over his shoulder. “And of course you _must_ invite him to the wedding. He would be very cross if you didn't.”

Before Thorin could come up with a suitably biting retort, the wizard walked out, a very self-satisfied smile on his face. The rest of the dwarves remained standing by the door, valiantly trying to keep a straight face. Thorin thankfully didn't seem to notice, preoccupied as he was with trying to unravel the wizard's words, so they all muttered their excuses to him and hurried out of the tent. 

“Do you really think there will be a wedding?” Ori asked once they were out of earshot. Dori nodded.

“I think there might be, eventually.” Dori clapped him on the shoulder. “Give them time. Miracles don't happen overnight.”

“Sometimes they do,” Fíli remarked and they all turned to watch Bilbo as he spoke with the Elvenking. The elf said something that made the hobbit's face light up and for a moment it almost seemed to them that Bilbo shone in the sun, just a little bit. Then he laughed and the illusion shattered, but the impression remained, making them wonder just what sort of elvish magic had Thranduil used on Bilbo.

“Thorin doesn't know how lucky he is,” Kíli muttered as they walked back to the young prices' tent.

“I think he does, laddie,” Balin said. “I think he does.”

*****

The recovery work after the battle was dirty and exhausting. Dozens of elves, men and dwarves worked together to clean the battlefield so that the restoration of Dale and Erebor could begin as soon as possible. While Bilbo and Thorin still remained bedridden in the healing tent, the rest of the Company joined Dáin's dwarves in the cleanup.

It took them all two weeks to clean the field. To save precious firewood for the winter, they decided to dig up huge pits and throw the orc corpses in them, burying them beneath the arms of the mountain. It was nasty work and Dori thought that if he never saw another shovel in his life, it would be too soon. While the elves carried their dead off into the woods and the fallen dwarves got laid down to sleep deep within Erebor, the men of Lake-town simply made several big mounds out of stones near the gates of Dale, sticking the dead men's javelins and swords into the earth around them. 

After the work was finally done, all the survivors held an improvised ceremony for the dead on the battlefield, praying for the souls of the dead to find rest in the afterlife. Some of the Lake-men departed after that, going back to Esgaroth, and a lot of the elves went with them. Both Thranduil and Bard stayed behind though, and spent long days in negotiations over the treasure with Dáin. 

Bilbo had been declared healthy three days after he had first woken up and spent most of his time helping whenever was needed, assisting the healers and carrying messages. He and Gandalf could often be seen with Bard and Thranduil, trying to mediate the relations between the races. The hobbit was often invited to dine with them both in the evenings, where he would entertain them with tales of his adventures. 

Many of Dáin’s dwarves soon became curious about the strange halfling residing in Thorin’s tent. Who was he? Where did he come from? How did he come by his high status in the king’s company? The Companions were more than eager to tell the tale of their quest and soon the stories started to spread – how Bilbo had twice challenged the Pale Orc, how he had faced an army of spiders all by himself, how he had bantered with a dragon. 

The fact that he had managed to survive the Dragon Fever only added to his reputation and unbeknownst to him, his legend started to grow. When he passed through the camp in Dale now, there were many eyes following him, watching and wondering.

Unlike Bilbo, Thorin was nowhere to be seen. He kept mostly to his tent and though the official version said that he was still recovering from his injuries, Dori knew all too well that Thorin had been fit enough to walk for days now. It puzzled Dori to no end. 

Why wasn't Thorin at the talks about the division of Erebor's treasure? Why wasn't he taking more interest in the negotiations of alliances that were going on between the three races?

“He's still missing his braid,” Nori explained when Dori asked about it one night. “He and Bilbo have spoken plenty of times, but he hasn't offered him the braid yet.”

“What does it matter?” Dori asked. “The other dwarves have no idea what happened with the Arkenstone.”

“Oh but they do.” Nori gave him a look. “The elves love to gossip. Everyone has heard about what happened at the wall by now.”

“I admit that the Arkenstone scene was really bad, but still - Thorin fought honourably in the battle,” Dori said. “That should be enough to make up for any lapses of judgement he may have had during the gold-fever.”

“Not for him.” Nori shook his head. He took a careful look around to make sure they weren't being overheard before he leaned closer, lowering his voice. “I don't think Thorin trusts himself after the episode with the Arkenstone. He thinks that he has failed and that he can't be a good king to his people after all he has done.”

Dori rolled his eyes. 

“He has always been overly dramatic about these things. Why doesn't just explain the whole thing to Bilbo? I'm sure the hobbit will understand. He may even forgive him if Thorin apologises honestly enough.” 

Nori sighed.

“I think Bilbo has forgiven him already. It's Thorin who needs to forgive himself.” Nori grimaced. “He should do it fast, too - if he hesitates for too long, Dáin's supporters will get their way and the crown of the King Under the Mountain will go to Dáin instead. You know that there has been talk of a coronation for at least a week now.”

Dori nodded. 

“Yes, they are quite puzzled by Thorin's reluctance, especially since he had always clamoured for the restoration of Durin's line on the throne of Erebor. I think someone should talk to him. He can have a personal crisis _after_ he's crowned for all I care, but it wouldn't do for him to go on a quest like this and come out empty handed when he has risked so much for this. It wouldn't be fair to Fíli and Kíli, either. They have a claim on the throne, too.”

Nori gave him a side-eye. “Will you talk to him, or should I?”

“I'll do it,” Dori said in resignation. “I know that Balin has spoken to him already, but he remains stubbornly uncooperative. Maybe he needs someone to give it to him straight.”

“Good luck.” Nori clapped him on the shoulder and walked off, probably to search for Ori. Dori mentally braced himself and set off in the direction of Thorin's tent. 

He and Thorin had never been very close – they used to be childhood friends back before the dragon came, but had grown apart after Thorin had taken over the throne when Thráin went mad. Dori had never become a part of the court, having his hands full with bringing up Ori after both their parents died, but he had still managed to find ways to keep in touch with Thorin. Even with his busy schedule, Thorin would occasionally come into Dori's shop when he had a free night and they would share a pint or two, chatting about the goings-on in the palace.

Dori had never bought into the whole pomp and ceremony that came with the royal title, treating Thorin like anybody else, and he knew that it was one of the reasons why Thorin enjoyed his company. Unlike the silver-tongued courtiers, Dori had never had a habit of mincing his words – he told things like they were and had no problem telling Thorin even the things that the king didn't particularly want to hear. The truths were usually harsh and made Thorin angry when he first heard them, but he always thanked Dori for his words later.

As he made his way through the camp, nodding in greeting to a few familiar faces, Dori fervently hoped that this particular talk would go well, too. He would have to choose his words more carefully than usual, but he was fairly sure that he would be able to convince Thorin in the end. Too much was at stake for Thorin to remain undecided.

He was all prepared to just walk inside Thorin's tent and give the dwarf a piece of his mind, but the sound of voices made him pause in his steps. He stopped right outside the tent, peeking in through the gap in the fabric at the two people inside. Thorin was kneeling on the floor again but this time Bilbo was standing in front of him, braiding the dwarf's hair with gentle hands. Thorin's old braid lay on his bed, its bead removed. 

_Finally_ , Dori thought with a smile, backing off from the door. Perhaps they were going to have the coronation after all. 

He sat down by the fire a few feet away, keeping discreet watch to make sure those two wouldn't get interrupted. Hair braiding was a private affair for dwarves and this one even more so due to its delicate nature. Dori waited for long enough to make sure that the ritual was finished before he stood up, making his way back towards the tent he shared with his brothers. 

“How did it go?” Nori asked the moment Dori stepped through the door.

“Thorin has his braid back,” Dori said, gratefully taking the bread that Nori had left for him on the table. “And I didn't need to do a thing. It seems that those two have managed to solve the issue on their own.”

“It was high time they did,” Nori said.

Ori looked up from his writing with a frown.

“What's going on? I heard some dwarves mention Thorin's missing braid today, but I didn't know what they meant. Why is it such an issue?” 

Dori and Nori exchanged a look.

“You already know all about dwarven braids as a status symbol, don't you?” Nori began. Ori nodded. 

“Good,” Nori said. “And do you have any idea what Thorin did when he made that scene on the wall?”

“He threatened Bilbo?” Ori asked tentatively. “Insulted him?”

Nori inclined his head. 

“Yes, that too, but there is more to it. You have surely noticed what has been going on between them these past few months.”

Ori blushed. 

“Thorin has been...courting him? Not very successfully, I would say.”

Nori chuckled.

“No, he's frankly terrible at it, but that's beside the point. Thorin has chosen him as his mate. Or, more precisely, Bilbo has been chosen for him.”

It took less than three seconds before the meaning registered with Ori, his eyes growing to the size of small saucers.

“He is- Bilbo is his-”

“Yes,” Nori nodded. “There are few crimes as terrible as raising one's hand against one's chosen mate. The only thing worse than that would be to slay one's own kin. Thorin may not have killed Bilbo, but what he did was horrifying enough on its own right. If he were anyone else, he would be banished, fever or no. As it is, he lost his honour along with his braid.” He exchanged a look with Dori.

“And now it seems that he has regained it back.” He shook his head in wonder. “Bilbo is far more forgiving than I would ever be in his place.”

“He's very generous,” Dori said. “Have you seen the enormous emerald necklace he gave to Thranduil? I thought the elf would wet his pants in excitement when he saw it. The gems he gave to Bard were quite pretty as well. He really doesn't seem to care much for treasure. The Arkenstone has been sitting by his bed for weeks now, but he’s barely looked at it.”

“Well, that's not so surprising,” Nori remarked. “Considering all the grief that the stone has caused him.”

“Then it’s a good thing that the stone will soon return back where it belongs – on the King's throne,” Dori said. 

“So there will be a coronation?” Ori asked, starting to look excited. Dori gave him a smile.

“Yes. We are going to have a King Under the Mountain once more.”

*****

Thorin was crowned King Under the Mountain in the Great Hall of Erebor at Midwinter that year, one month after the battle. The mountain was still empty and desolate, but the hall had been cleared for the ceremony and Thorin stood tall and proud in front of his grandfather's throne with both his heirs by his side. Thrór's old crown had been found in the dragon hoard and the Arkenstone was back in its place above the throne, shining with a soft inner light.

Gandalf had been the one to place the crown on Thorin's head, at the dwarf's insistence. The wizard crowned him with all the solemnity that such an occasion warranted, stepping back with a smile when Thorin rose to his feet and greeted the cheering crowd. There still weren't many dwarves in Erebor, but the men of Dale had come for the ceremony and even some of the elves too, though those did their best to pretend complete disinterest in the entire affair. To everyone’s surprise Thranduil was present as well, watching the newly-crowned king with shrewd eyes.

The Companions stood in the front lines, all of them wearing wide grins. After all they had been through together, Thorin's coronation felt like a victory for them all. 

There was no feast after the ceremony, because the provisions were still scarce, but the mood was festive and songs could be heard around the hall. Many people came forward to congratulate Thorin on reclaiming Erebor or to swear fealty to him, so the king spent the evening besieged by well-wishers of all races. 

Bilbo had been smiling all through the ceremony, but once the coronation was over he became pensive, shifting restlessly in his chair. Dori had planned to ask him about the source of his uneasiness that night, but he got sidetracked by Bofur and forgot about it.

They found out about the source of Bilbo's disquiet soon enough.

“Now we can send messages to our kin and let them know that the mountain is open to all who wish to return,” Thorin told them when the Company sat down for lunch the next day. “I will need to send a message to Dís as well – my sister must be mad with impatience by now.” 

Identical looks of guilt appeared on Fíli and Kíli's faces at that, indicating that they hadn't written to their mother yet, either. 

“I tried to persuade one of the ravens to take a letter to the Blue Mountains for me,” Kíli said, “but it refused. It said that it's too far away for him to carry.”

Thorin frowned.

“Then we will have to find someone willing to deliver the messages. Erebor should be rebuilt as fast as possible, to ensure that our defences hold against any further attacks. I wonder if Dáin would let me borrow one of his men.” He frowned. “Or maybe Gandalf would be willing to undertake the journey, if I ask him.”

“That won't be necessary,” Bilbo said, causing them to all turn toward him.

“What did you say?” Thorin asked, instantly going on alert. Bilbo met his eyes warily.

“I said that it won't be necessary. I will take your messages to the Blue Mountains.” He slid his gaze over the others. “If anyone else wants to send a letter home, you can give it to me, too.”

“You're leaving?” Kíli asked, sounding betrayed. “Why now? We just got the mountain back.”

Bilbo gave him a sad look.

“I cannot stay here. It's all too much – the dragon, the battle, the fever – I need some time to myself.”

“But you can have that here,” Kíli insisted. “We can leave you alone, if you wish, you only need to ask.” He looked like the thought alone made him deeply unhappy, but his offer was still genuine. Bilbo gave him a small smile, obviously touched by the gesture.

“Your presence has never been a bother.”

“What is it then?” Fíli asked. “Why won't you stay here?” 

The hobbit visibly hesitated before he spoke, sharing the source of his disquiet with great reluctance.

“I'm not completely healed,” he admitted quietly. “The fever left a sort of a...residue behind. I may have woken up, but there is still a small part of it in me – a dark shadow of greed and hunger lurking in the corner of my mind, waiting for a chance to surge up and take over.” He swallowed. “I am afraid the sight of gold could trigger it to rise up again.”

“Gandalf didn’t mention anything like this,” Balin said with a frown. Bilbo gave him a look.

“He also said that most people don’t survive it.” 

“Is it really so bad?” Bofur asked, clearly concerned. Bilbo sighed. 

“I know every single piece of treasure in that hoard,” he said with a grimace. “Every coin, every gem – I can tell you where they are and how valuable they are. It might be a great sort of knowledge for a dwarf, but it's driving me mental. I thought it would disappear, but it's still there a month later. I don't think it's going to go away on its own.” He gave them a sad look. “I think I need to spend some time in Rivendell, maybe go back to the Shire for a while.”

“You want to leave Erebor?” It was obvious that Thorin hadn't heard about this particular idea before and wasn't pleased. The other dwarves exchanged looks, wondering whether they should leave. 

“Not permanently,” Bilbo hastened to reassure him. “Just for a few months until the sickness is gone completely. It gets a little weaker every day, but it will take weeks for it to leave entirely. The journey will help me clear my mind and give me a chance to put my things back at home in order before I come back to live here.” 

“You will come back?” Thorin asked, his eyes roaming over Bilbo's face. Bilbo gave him a smile.

“Of course I will come back. I have grown quite fond of the mountain, despite everything that happened here.”

Thorin relaxed a little, but still looked unhappy with Bilbo's announcement. The rest of the Company rose from the table.

“We should go and see how the restoration is going,” Balin said, not even attempting at subtlety. Thorin didn't look like he even heard him, so they all turned to leave. Most of them rose from their seats at once, but Fíli and Kíli lingered by the table, giving Bilbo identical despondent looks.

“When are you leaving?” Kíli asked the hobbit.

“The day after tomorrow,” Bilbo said. “I'm riding out with Thranduil's party. Gandalf has promised to go with me all the way to the Shire, so I should be quite safe.” 

Kíli's expression was still a little doubtful but Fíli nudged him and they both walked out after Balin, whispering together. The rest of the group followed suit, marching out in a single file.

The last thing Dori saw before he left the room was Thorin stepping towards the hobbit and pulling him into a desperate kiss.

_To be continued..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been building this whole concept of dwarvish culture in my mind for a while, but I have no idea how compatible it is with Tolkien’s original vision. I will freely admit that most of the things here are completely made up. If anyone’s feeling confused about the nature of Thorin’s dilemma, don’t worry – everything will be explained in Thorin’s chapter (including his relationship with Bilbo, so you can look forward to that). 
> 
> Since love is so hard to find for dwarves and so few of them ever marry, I thought it would make sense that they would have very strict rules about domestic violence (or variations thereof). In my mind they would find it deplorable to wilfully hurt something (someone) that is so precious and unattainable for the majority of the population – it would be an insult not only to the person, but to the culture as a whole. 
> 
> On a lighter note: was someone playing “guess the next dwarf?” while reading this? How successful were you? The next chapter is bit of a surprise (though some of you may have guessed already) and I’m really curious what you will think about it.
> 
> The next chapter should be posted on December 26 or 27, depending on how much editing it needs.
> 
> Happy Holidays everyone! (Christmas/Yule/whichever one you’re celebrating :)


	13. Dís

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Tell me, Mr Baggins - which one of my sons have you managed to ensnare with your wily charms?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The promised surprise chapter is here. I hope nobody is disappointed that it's not Gandalf :)
> 
> This chapter now has Fanart! You can see it [here](http://nazgullow.deviantart.com/art/Discovering-Mr-Baggins-Dis-427736245). Many thanks to the talented Nazgullow for the illustration!

Dís was just thinking about ending the audiences for the day and having some dinner when one of the gate guards ran into the hall, a bewildered look on his face.

“My Lady,” he began once he caught his breath, “there’s a strange halfling outside who claims that he’s bearing news from King Thorin. Should I let him in?”

Dís ignored the flutter of nervous anticipation in her stomach and sat up straighter on her brother’s throne. Finally, news from Thorin. They hadn’t heard from him for more than a year. How strange that a halfling should be the one to bear the message, and not one of the companions. 

She beckoned the guard to bring their visitor in. 

The door to the audience chamber opened and in walked the strangest halfling she had ever laid her eyes on. Over the years Dís had often ridden through the green countryside of the Shire and seen enough of these strange little people to form an accurate (and not terribly flattering) picture of them in her head. This particular hobbit, however, was unlike any she had ever seen.

He strode in clad in shining mithril mail with an elven sword on his belt, back straight, clever eyes scanning the hall as he walked closer. By all accounts he should have looked completely ridiculous – a pudgy halfling strutting around in shiny elvish armour, pretending to be a warrior – but somehow, he didn’t. Strangely enough, the mail looked good on him, maybe because he wore it with the air of someone used to dressing for a battlefield.

As he came closer, whispers started around the hall as some of the dwarves noticed that he had a dwarven braid in his hair, which was unusually long for a hobbit. Dís thought the bead looked rather familiar, but decided to ponder the issue later.

The halfling crossed the hall and stopped before the throne, bowing deeply in dwarven fashion. 

“Bilbo Baggins at your service, my Lady.”

He had good manners, she had to give him that.

“Dís, daughter of Thráin, at yours,” she replied. “What brings you to my halls?”

“I bring a message from Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain.”

Dís bit back the sigh of relief that had tried to make its way out of her throat.

“Thorin has succeeded then?”

The halfling smiled.

“Yes. The dragon is dead and the mountain has been reclaimed by the line of Durin once more.” He raised his voice a bit. “Erebor is open to all who wish return. Thorin offers a home to everyone who is willing to come and help him restore the kingdom to its former glory.”

“What about his companions? Did they all survive the journey?” Dís knew she wasn’t the only one curious about their fate. Glóin’s wife was standing by the door with her son, gripping a basket with both hands.

“They are all fine,” the hobbit said, his smile growing a little wider when he spotted Nora and Gimli in the crowd. “Everybody survived both the dragon and the battle.”

“The battle? What battle?” young Gimli blurted out eagerly, his curiosity making him forget about his manners. Dís let him be – the lad had been awfully disappointed that he hadn’t been allowed to join Thorin’s quest. She rose from the throne.

“Perhaps it would be better if you told us the whole story over dinner. Your journey has been long and you must be hungry.”

The halfling fidgeted a bit.

“I would hate to impose on your hospitality.”

“Nonsense.” Dís said briskly. “It wouldn’t do to have a guest standing around hungry while we all stuff our faces.” She beckoned to him in invitation. “Come, Mr Baggins, dine with us, and tell us about your adventures.” 

He nodded with some reluctance, trailing after her as she started leading the way towards the dining hall.

“I assume you’re the mystery halfling Thorin was grumbling about before he left here,” she said when he fell into step beside her. The rest of the court filed into the corridor behind them, valiantly trying to pretend that they weren’t eavesdropping on their conversation.

“That I am, my Lady,” the hobbit nodded with a hint of amusement. “It was Gandalf the Wizard who chose me as the fourteenth member of Thorin’s company. I am afraid no one, myself included, was terribly pleased by that choice at first.”

That made her smile, remembering how disgruntled Thorin had been at having a _Halfling_ of all people as a member of his company. 

Dís led the hobbit to the Great Dining Hall, which held a long wooden table with more than fifty seats and a few smaller tables. At his questioning gaze she replied:

“I would normally dine in my chambers, but there are many who wish to hear your tale. I hope you do not mind.”

The hobbit shook his head. “Not at all. At least this way I will only have to tell it once. It's a very long story.”

There were plenty of dishes on the table and the hobbit tucked in with great enthusiasm. Dís ate at a more sedate pace, using the moment to study him properly. She hadn’t been mistaken after all – the bead in his hair was indeed Thorin’s and when he bowed his head, Kíli's silver clasp shone in his hair. _How interesting._

Judging by the whispers around them, she wasn’t the only one who had noticed. It appeared that most of the court had come to the dining hall to listen to the halfling’s tale and several of the relatives of Thorin’s companions could be seen sitting down at the long table as well. They must have been fetched from somewhere, as they hadn’t been present during the audience. More dwarves kept coming inside as they ate, sitting down wherever they could, and when all the seats were full, the rest of them simply went to stand by the wall.

The hobbit paid the assembly no notice, busy as he was with his chips. He ate with obvious pleasure, piling his plate high with all the food he could reach. Finally, after he had consumed enough food to sustain a small army, he sat back with a sigh of satisfaction and began his tale.

“It was a fine morning near the end of April when Gandalf the Wizard came to my door in Hobbiton. He spoke to me cryptically about adventures and other business that I didn't care about and I was very glad to see him go. The next thing I knew, there were thirteen dwarves sitting in my kitchen, eating their way through my pantry...” 

And so he told them all about trolls and goblins, spiders and elves. He was a gifted storyteller and by the time he got to the dragon’s demise, he had the entire hall hanging on his every word. He finished his tale with the battle and Thorin’s coronation and Dís couldn’t help but notice that by the time he got to the end, many of the dwarves were looking at him with wonder and no small amount of respect, which was only good if she was right in guessing her brother’s plans concerning the halfling.

The hobbit’s eyelids were getting heavier and his yawns more frequent as he spoke, so when he finally finished his story, Dís shooed the curious courtiers out of the room and decided to personally escort him to his rooms. There were some matters that were better discussed in private.

“I hope you will be staying for the celebrations,” she told him as they walked down the corridor. 

“I would hate to impose-” the hobbit began.

“Nonsense,” Dís said. “You were part of Thorin’s Company and helped him reclaim the mountain. That gives you full right to partake in the festivities with us.”

“Very well,” the hobbit finally conceded, “I can stay for a bit, but I will have to go back to the Shire in a day or two. I left Gandalf to house-sit my hobbit hole for me, but it’s better not to leave him alone for too long. Valar know what he could do to it if he got bored.”

Dís gave him an amused look, but didn’t comment on that. When they reached the door to his room, she gestured for him to go first and walked in after him, closing the door behind them.

“I won’t bother you any longer, since you are obviously fatigued from your journey, but we shall have a talk tomorrow.” At his questioning look she elaborated. “I am not stupid, Mr Baggins. I know you must have left out parts of your story, probably out of some misplaced sense of propriety, and I am most curious to hear how you came across that bead,” she gestured towards Bilbo’s hair. 

The hobbit reached up to finger the bead, cradling it in his hand almost protectively. A soft smile appeared on his face at the gesture and she had to suppress a smile of her own. _So that’s how it was._ Her suspicion had been right after all. How interesting that her brother should choose a hobbit of all people as his intended. She would have to observe the Halfling carefully before she made any judgements, but the smile she had just seen gave her hope.

 _Oh, yes,_ she thought as she walked back to her chambers a few minutes later, _this should prove to be most interesting._

*****

One of the servants brought the hobbit to her dining room the next morning. Dís couldn't help but notice that he had foregone the shiny mail this time and wondered whether he was aware of the gesture of trust he was unconsciously giving her. Probably not – if she could guess, she would say that he had laid the mithril aside out of practicality. He might have spent a year in the company of dwarves, but there were many aspects of their culture that he still probably had no idea about.

The hobbit still looked a bit sleepy when he came in but his eyes were alert, studying her face with interest. Dís knew what he was looking at – the family resemblance between her and Thorin had always been strong. While he piled food on his plate, she dismissed the servants from the room, allowing them to speak in complete privacy.

“You have a beautiful home,” the halfling said, pouring his tea. “Fíli and Kíli told me plenty about it when I travelled with them, but I'm still glad for the opportunity to see it with my own eyes.”

Dís nodded, accepting the compliment. He was clearly attempting to make some polite conversation, but she had never been fond of pointless small talk. She decided to cut right to the point that interested her.

“Tell me, Mr Baggins,” she said, making him look up, “which one of my sons have you managed to ensnare with your wily charms?”

She had to suppress an amused smile when he choked on his tea, sputtering. She knew it was evil of her to tease him like that, but the opportunity had simply been too good to pass up.

“I beg you pardon?” he said, blinking incredulously. Judging by the hint of pink on his cheeks, he was desperately trying (and failing) to fight down a blush. Dís folded her fingers in front of her, propping her chin on her hands.

“You're wearing Kíli's clasp in your hair and unless I am very much mistaken, the jewel on your neck used to belong to my mother. You can't blame me for wondering how you came by those. Since you claim that both of my sons are alive and you didn't steal it from them, the only other possible explanation is that you are having an affair with one of them. So, which one is it?” She waited a heartbeat before she added: “Or is it both of them?”

This time she couldn't hide her smirk when his blush turned bright red until he looked like he was going to faint any minute now. He gaped at her for a few moments before he noticed her amusement, his eyes narrowing. To his credit, it didn't take him long to recover from his loss of equilibrium.

“It's neither, actually,” he said when he finally trusted himself to speak. “Both of these were presents, freely given.”

“Is that so?” Dís raised an eyebrow. She took great pleasure in watching him deliberate his next move. It was clear that he didn't want to insult her, but wasn't pleased with her implications, either.

“Yes,” he said firmly. “If it's any consolation, I tried to give both of those things back, but they insisted that I should have them.” He paused for a second in hesitation before he raised his eyes to hers, lifting his chin. “In case you were wondering, the bead is Thorin's.”

He stared at her in challenge, waiting for her reaction. Dís gave him a nod of approval, her smile widening. He was braver than she had thought. She had never expected him to admit that freely and couldn't help but admire that courage.

“I had guessed as much,” she admitted. “I just couldn't quite believe it.”

“Why?” he cocked his head. “Because a hobbit is such an unlikely choice for your brother, or because you find it hard to believe that anybody would be willing to put up with Thorin?”

That drew a startled laugh from her and she sat back in her chair, gazing at him with new appreciation.

“Both, I suppose,” she said, no longer trying to hide her smile. The hobbit relaxed a bit at her reaction, but still watched her with wary eyes. “Thorin has always been awfully picky. He has never looked at anyone twice because no one was ever good enough for him. I have long given up on ever seeing him settle down with anyone, so it's quite surprising to hear this from you.”

She gave him a long look, studying him intently until he started shifting in his chair under the weight of her gaze.

“You're not what I expected, Bilbo Baggins,” she said finally, “but I like you. There aren't many people who have been able to able to win my brother's affection. I suppose that under current circumstances, you may call me Dís. After all, we are soon to be family, are we not?”

He smiled, the last traces of wariness finally leaving his posture. “I suppose so. Call me Bilbo, then. Everyone else does.”

They turned back to their food, both of them digging in before the tea went cold. The breakfast was almost over when Bilbo straightened in his chair, blinking in sudden realisation.

“I almost forgot!” he exclaimed, reaching for his bag. “You made me so flustered with your questions that I have nearly forgotten why I came here in the first place.”

He drew out a small parcel wrapped in dark blue fabric and a stack of letters.

“These are for you,” he said, handing her the parcel along with three letters from the pile. “Fíli, Kíli and Thorin have all written to you after the battle, probably to tell you about all that happened. I have no idea what's in that box. Thorin gave it to me with the instruction to hand it over to you. He said that you will know what it is.”

Dís lifted the parcel with careful hands, breaking Thorin's seal on the package. Inside she discovered a familiar small box made of polished wood decorated with pearl inlay on the lid. She ran a gentle hand over the wood, her eyes watering a little as long-forgotten memories flooded her.

When she'd been a small girl, she used to visit her mother every night and play on the carpet next to the bed while her mother unbraided her hair and prepared for bed. Little Dís would ask about the different gems and jewels that her mother wore and mother would explain in a gentle voice about the history behind the gems. Together they would then carefully lay the jewels to sleep in the box, keeping them safe so that Dís might one day wear them, too.

The box had stayed in Erebor, left behind in the panic caused by the dragon's rampage. Dís knew that her mother had mourned the loss of the box for many years, regretting that she hadn't been able to recover this piece of family history from her quarters during the evacuation. 

And now the box was back in her hands, after so many years. Dís reached up and wiped away her tears, not embarrassed in the slightest by her reaction to the gift. When she looked up, the hobbit was staring studiously into his tea, clearly determined to give her some privacy.

“Thank you for bringing this to me,” she told him, meaning every word. The hobbit gave her a soft smile in understanding. 

“You're welcome.” He rose from the table, gathering his backpack and the rest of the letters. “I will leave you alone so you can read your letters in peace. My friends have all written messages and tasked me with delivering them to their families, so I have plenty of searching to do. If you'll excuse me.”

He gave her a small bow and walked out, closing the door quietly behind him. Dís remained sitting at the table, holding the box with a small smile. Her brother was smarter than she gave him credit for. Sending the hobbit with her mother's jewellery box had been a stroke of genius on his part – Thorin knew all too well how much that box meant to her and had accurately predicted that she wouldn't be able to turn away anyone who had brought it to her. 

But clever or not, there was one thing Thorin hadn't predicted – Bilbo Baggins himself. Maybe Thorin hadn't liked him at first, so he felt that he had to send the box to bribe Dís into liking the hobbit, but Dís found the whole manoeuvre quite unnecessary. 

She liked Bilbo Baggins already.

*****

It was good to have Kíli back.

He and Dwalin came back home in September, four months after Bilbo's departure. The hobbit had stayed in the Blue Mountains for two days and spent most of his time besieged from all sides by the Companions' various friends and relatives. Young Gimli, especially, had taken to following him around, asking the hobbit to tell him more about the battle and the dragon. The hobbit had enjoyed great popularity among the local dwarfs and more than a few had been disappointed to see him leave. 

Dís had long suspected that Bilbo hadn't told her everything about the journey, probably out of his respect for Thorin, but it wasn't until Kíli came that she learned just how much the hobbit had left out. Since they were sitting in the privacy of Dís’s own rooms, Kíli could tell the story without embellishments and so Dís found out about many of the less savoury aspects of their journey that the halfling hadn’t mentioned.

Namely - her brother’s greed and foolishness and the way he had nearly caused a war with the elves. The longer Kíli talked, the more her respect for the hobbit grew. Few had ever had the courage to stand up to Thorin when he was at his most furious, and even fewer had lived to tell the tale. That Thorin had forgiven the hobbit for openly challenging him and calling him a fool in front of an audience showed that her brother must like the halfling very much indeed.

It was late at night when Kíli finished his tale, yawning widely in his armchair. He made a token protest when she pulled him into an embrace, mumbling something about being too old for cuddles, but let her hug him anyway. Dís held her son close for a moment, silently thanking all the gods that they had kept him alive. To think that she might have lost him, that she had nearly lost them all...

Kíli wiggled out of her arms after a moment, announcing that he was going to sleep. He ambled towards the door in his usual carefree manner, his movements perfectly casual, but when he looked back at her before he left, his eyes were soft and held far more understanding than she would expect. Kíli had grown while he'd been away. 

And so had Fíli, most likely. It would be a while yet before Dís would be able to see him, because there were so many preparations to make. Moving so many people at once would be exhausting and since nobody wanted to travel over the mountains in the middle of winter, they would have to wait until March at least before they could set out. In the meantime, however, there were other things they could do.

Dís found herself quite curious about Bilbo Baggins. The hobbit had greatly downplayed his own role in the story, talking about the dwarves instead, and she was most interested to hear more about him from someone who wasn't affected by useless modesty. Kíli was more than glad to oblige and he spent the next few days babbling about the hobbit, singing his praises. 

It was his idea to go for a visit to the Shire. 

Several weeks passed before they were able to go, so it was October when Dís, Kíli and Dwalin finally set out. The latter had pretended reluctance before he finally agreed to come, mumbling something about roads being dangerous, but Dís knew all too well that he was looking forward to the hobbit's cooking, something Kíli had waxed poetics about.

The journey was short, pleasant and uneventful, the green lands of the Shire as beautiful as ever. They passed plenty of hobbits who looked at them curiously but nobody dared say anything to their face, turning away to mutter to their neighbours once they passed. The three dwarves paid little attention to them, making their way to the door on top of the Hill, where Bilbo’s bright green door stood shining in welcome. 

Dís stepped forward to knock on the door, Kíli peering excitedly over her shoulder. Dwalin stood a few steps behind them, gazing at the neighbouring houses in feigned disinterest, but his eyes strayed to the door every so often. There was a shuffling sound from inside and a minute later the door opened, revealing a pretty hobbit lass with dark curly hair and sky blue eyes. She smiled warmly when she saw them.

“Hello, I am Primula. Bilbo mentioned you may be coming. Come in and make yourself comfortable, I will go and fetch him for you.”

She stepped away from the door, holding it open for them. Dís noted with amusement that Kíli suddenly looked very self-conscious about the mud on his shoes.

They had barely stepped over the threshold, taking in the mithril mail displayed proudly in the entrance hall, when a male voice called from one of the rooms: “Primula, dear, where did you put my shirts?”

The hobbitess sighed in fond exasperation and called back: “They’re in the second drawer.” She turned back to them. “You'll have to excuse my husband. He can be a bit disorganized.” 

Dwalin and Kíli exchanged a glance. _Husband?_

There was a scuttling sound and an unfamiliar hobbit poked his head around the corner. 

“We have visitors?” He looked a little taken aback by their appearance, Dwalin’s especially, but recovered quickly. “Oh, you must be Bilbo’s dwarves. He’s in the back garden. Go straight down the corridor, it’s the last door in the left.”

Both hobbits shuffled away into the bedroom, but not before giving them a few more curious looks. The three dwarves made their way through the tunnel, with Kíli leading the way. The young dwarf was practically vibrating with excitement and walked as fast as the cramped space would allow. He managed to find the right door on the second try and opened it wide, stepping out into the back garden. 

Bilbo Baggins sat on a bench beneath a window, blowing smoke rings. He was dressed much more hobbit-like than when Dís had first seen him, wearing a nice embroidered waistcoat with brass buttons and a pair of cropped trousers, but his hair was longer than Dís remembered. He now had a mane of curls that reached down to his shoulderblades, spilling over his back like a river of gold. His dwarvish braid hung down next to his left cheek, the bead swinging right above his shoulder. 

The hobbit jumped up when he saw them and bowed to Dís with a smile.

“Bilbo Baggins at your service, my Lady.”

“Bilbo!”

The hobbit had barely straightened up when Kíli sprung forward and caught him in a hug, almost bowling him over in his enthusiasm. Bilbo looked a little taken aback but pleased nonetheless, hugging Kíli back.

“It’s nice to see you too, Kíli.” He patted the dwarf’s shoulder. Kíli squeezed him in return, his grin wide enough to split his face in two. 

Bilbo’s eyes slid to the last member of their small group and his smile widened. 

“Oh, Dwalin is here as well. Welcome.” The burly dwarf gave him a nod in return and Bilbo shooed them all back inside, closing the door to block the stares of curious neighbours, who had all just happened to stop right by Bilbo’s hedge. 

“Nosy little buggers,” he muttered, “they won’t leave me alone these days. A few months ago somebody spread a rumour that I have piles of treasure buried in my cellar and ever since then I haven’t had a moment of peace.”

“Have they been bothering you?” Kíli looked genuinely concerned.

Bilbo shook his head, smiling.

“Nobody has tried to sneak in yet, but I have caught some lads digging in my garden once. I’m not quite sure what I had threatened them with, as I was a bit drunk at the time, but they haven’t shown themselves since.” He chuckled. “I think I might have mentioned a dragon at some point.”

He nimbly sidestepped the various garden tools propped against the wall and led them to the kitchen, where he started puttering around, leading a steady string of monologue as he pulled out various pots and pans. 

“I’m afraid you have missed lunch, but I can put something together for you anyway. You must be hungry from your journey. Will you be staying for dinner? Why do I even ask, of course you will. I had planned to make some tarts for the breakfast tomorrow. Is raspberry fine? I should still have some poppy seed cakes somewhere, I know you like those, Kíli. I suppose a roast for dinner will be fine, no?” He stopped for a moment to look at Dwalin, who was gazing longingly at the pantry. Bilbo gave him a grin. “Go help yourself, Dwalin. I have replenished all my stock, so there should be plenty to eat, even with your appetite.”

Dwalin and Kíli both got up at once, heading for the pantry with confidence born of familiarity. Dís stayed seated, watching the scene unfold with a smile. Bilbo stopped in the middle of pouring tea, suddenly realising that the two of them had been left alone in the room.

“What would you like to drink? I have tea, cider, brandy and several bottles of last year’s wine.”

“Wine would be nice, thank you.” Dís said, catching his wrist gently when he started for the pantry. “Kíli can bring it, he’s there already. I’m much more interested in talking to you. It seems you have left out some parts of your tale.”

The hobbit sat down on a stool, fidgeting. 

“I admit that I may have taken a little artistic license with the tale.” He grimaced. “The parts that I left out didn’t show either me or Thorin in a very flattering light. I didn’t want you to think that I have travelled halfway across the continent just to complain about your brother, when there were so many other, better news to tell.”

Dís nodded. “That is fair enough, but I would have liked to hear it anyway.”

Before she could say anything more, the two hobbits appeared in the doorway.

“We'll be off, then,” Primula said, clutching a small bag in her hands. 

“You don't have to leave just because I have visitors,” Bilbo protested, standing up. “There is plenty of room for everyone here.”

“I know,” she smiled, “but my Ma has been pestering me for ages to come for a visit. This is as good an opportunity as any. Besides, most of our things are still at her house, so it's not a hardship to stay there for a few days.”

Bilbo still looked sceptical, but nodded.

“Very well, go visit the Brandybucks if you wish, but know that you can come back here anytime. After all, this is your home now, too.”

Both hobbits waved at them cheerfully and left. Bilbo stood by the table for a moment, shuffling his feet, before he went back to the stove. Kíli and Dwalin came into the kitchen a few minutes later, carrying armfuls of food. 

“Just put it down on the table,” Bilbo waved at them. “I'll finish the meat and we can eat at once. I made some nice apple pies this morning, so you can have those later, too.” 

It didn't take him long to put together a small feast. Dís had to admire his efficiency and - when she bit into the first piece of tender roast – admit that Kíli hadn't exaggerated his cooking skills in the slightest. Kíli and Dwalin looked like they were having a moment of quiet bliss, lost in the land of delicious food. The hobbit just smiled at their raptured expressions and loaded more meat on Dwalin's plate.

“Those hobbits live with you?” Dís asked. Bilbo nodded.

“Drogo and Primula are both my relatives from different sides of the family. They got married last summer and I thought that they might like to have a place of their own, so I let them move here a month ago. Since I will be moving to Erebor, it would be a shame for such a nice hobbit hole to stand empty.”

“You're really coming back to Erebor?” Kíli asked eagerly. Bilbo gave him a smile. 

“Yes, I'm coming back.”

“Will you be alright?” Kíli's brow furrowed, probably remembering the entire deal with the dragon fever. Bilbo's eyes softened at Kíli's concern.

“I'll be fine,” he assured the young dwarf. “I spent a few weeks in Rivendell and managed to sort everything out. Elrond was most helpful in that – he gave me some potion that made me sleep for two days and when I woke up, the last remnants of the sickness were gone.” He smiled. “It's good to have my mind all to myself again.”

“That's good to hear,” Kíli said, looking genuinely pleased. “Our caravan from the Blue Mountains should be leaving for Erebor in spring, so you can come with us.”

“I'll be happy to.” Bilbo nodded. 

Kíli chose that moment to reach for the plate of apple tarts that was lying on the window sill. The hobbit's hand shot forward in a flash, slapping Kíli's fingers back.

“No,” Bilbo said sternly. “Those are for teatime. Eat your lunch first.” 

Dís watched with fascination as Kíli shrunk back, meekly going back to his food. Even more amusing was to watch Bilbo turn his glare on Dwalin, who had been in the process of reaching for the tart as well. Dís had to suppress a grin when the great warrior visibly deflated and pulled his hand back, lifting a piece of chicken instead.

“Does this work on my brother, too?” Dís asked with interest. The hobbit blushed, probably realising that he had just slapped her son in front of her, but Kíli perked up.

“You should have heard the lecture Bilbo gave Thorin after he had dared to complain that our manner of escape from the elvish dungeon wasn’t dignified enough. I have never seen Uncle look so small.”

Dís turned back to the hobbit, who was fiddling with a napkin, a sheepish smile on his face.

“I was sleep deprived,” Bilbo muttered, piling more mashed potatoes on his plate. Dís raised an eyebrow at Kíli, who just grinned back. 

“How long will you be staying?” Bilbo asked when they finished the meal. He got up and started cleaning up the plates.

“We were hoping to spend a few days here, if it's not too much of a bother,” Dís answered for them all. “Kíli, especially, was looking forward to spending more time with you.”

Bilbo gave the dwarf in question a fond smile.

“Of course. Stay as long as you like. My home is always open to you.”

*****

They ended up staying for a week.

Bilbo Baggins was a generous host – he fed them until they could barely move and always made sure that they had everything they could possibly need. Dís enjoyed the opportunity to take some time off from her duties and just spend a few days relaxing. Watching the interactions between Bilbo, Kíli and Dwalin was fascinating and provided her with plenty of entertainment.

“So, what shall we do today?” Kíli asked at breakfast on the second morning. “I thought you might take us on a tour of the Shire.”

“I can do that,” Bilbo said, “but don't expect to see much. I'm afraid you will be bored with Shire, soon.”

“I don't think we will be,” Kíli assured him. “But even if we were, we can keep ourselves entertained just fine.” He shot a look between Dwalin and Bilbo, a mischievous smile appearing on his face. “Thorin wanted me to remind you that you should keep up with your sword lessons.”

Their reactions were instant and Dís had to cover her grin when she saw the identical looks of horror and disgust on both their faces.

“No,” Bilbo said resolutely, shaking his head. “Absolutely not. There won't be any sword lessons while you are here. Not if I can help it. Thorin is not here right now to tell us what to do and since this is my house, I am declaring it entirely sword-free.”

“Thank Mahal for small mercies,” Dwalin murmured, making them all laugh. 

“What about archery?” Kíli asked, giving the hobbit his best puppy dog eyes. Bilbo resisted for a moment before he gave in, sighing in resignation. 

“Very well, but I have to warn you that I haven't improved in the slightest since you last saw me. I'm still hopeless at shooting straight.”

“We can work on that,” Kíli said with a grin. “Besides, we're doing this for fun.”

“Right.” Bilbo said in deadpan. “Fun.”

But it was. Dís spent a pleasant afternoon watching them as her son tried to improve the Bilbo's abominable technique with the bow while the hobbit did his best to sabotage him. They bickered and joked and despite Bilbo's loud protests at having to learn how to shoot, it was clear that they were both having a good time. 

A few days later, after they had moved to the hobbit's sitting room in the evening, Kíli walked over and came to stand by Bilbo's favourite armchair with an expectant look on his face.

“What is it, Kíli?” Bilbo asked, putting aside his book.

“Thorin wants you to have this,” Kíli said, producing a small box from his pocket. “Since he couldn't come himself to offer it in person, he asked me to do it for him. You don't have to accept it if you don't want to,” he added quickly as the hobbit opened the box, gazing at the bead inside.

“I accept,” Bilbo said softly, giving Kíli a smile. “Will you put it in my hair, please? I still haven't figured out how to make the braids properly.”

Kíli only hesitated for a second before he nodded, gesturing for the hobbit to sit down on a low stool while he fetched a comb. Dís wondered why Bilbo pretended incompetence about his braiding skills – the courting braid in his hair was perfectly adequate, so she had no doubt that he would have no problem weaving the engagement bead into his second braid, either. There was no need to ask Kíli to do it for him.

She found out the reason soon enough.

“You haven’t cut your hair,” Kíli said with a dreamy smile as he carded his fingers through the hobbit's plentiful curls. Bilbo shook his head.

“No, I haven't. It was a bit bothersome to have so much hair at first, but now I have grown quite fond of it.” He tugged on one of the longer strands with a smile. “I suspect it’s one of the reasons why the locals think I've gone mad. They would be willing to quietly tolerate my adventure if I had gone back to my respectable ways after my return, but since I refused to do that, I have become a bit of a local spectacle.”

Despite his words he was smiling and looked quite pleased with himself. “As far as the Shire is concerned, I am now the Mad Baggins - the hobbit who runs away with dwarves and threatens thieves with a sword.” 

“That sounds like the best kind of a hobbit to me,” Kíli grinned. 

“Tell that to my neighbours,” Bilbo said. ”I’m afraid I entirely lost my reputation of respectability when I came back wearing elvish armour.” He shook his head with a sigh. “I wouldn't be able to stand living here for another sixty years. If I couldn't move to Erebor, I would probably run off to Rivendell at the first opportunity.”

“Then it's a good thing you're moving away with us,” Kíli said with a smile. “Will you tell me another story? I don't think you ever got to finish the tale about Eärendil.”

“You're right, I didn't, but it's been so long that I forgot which parts I already told you.” He gave the dwarf a look. “You don't mind if I tell it from the start, do you?”

Kíli's smile widened. “When have I ever?” He was still carding his hands through Bilbo's hair, not even bothering to pretend that he was braiding anything.

“I learned plenty of new stories when I stayed in the Elvenking's palace on my way home.” Bilbo cocked an eyebrow. “Did you know that Thranduil used to fight dragons when he was younger?” 

“Did he?” Kíli asked with interest. Bilbo nodded. 

“Yes, it makes for some wonderful tales. But I can tell you about that later. Let's finish the one about Eärendil first.”

They settled into a comfortable position – Kíli plopped himself into Bilbo's favourite chair while Bilbo sat down on the rug by his feet, leaning back against the dwarf's knees. Kíli soon resumed his combing and Bilbo started his tale, both of them looking at peace with the world.

Dís sat in the corner, watching the exchange with fascination. She couldn't help but marvel at the familiar manner with which they treated each other. The open affection and camaraderie between them spoke volumes about the level of trust between them and if Bilbo weren't wearing Thorin's bead in his hair, she might be even inclined to start speculating about the nature of their relationship. 

Still, just because she knew, didn't mean that she couldn't get some entertainment out of it – after all, embarrassing one's own children was the sacred duty of every parent. After the hobbit went to bed, she managed to sneak up on Kíli in the kitchen, where he was in the process of trying to smuggle one of Bilbo's apple pies into his room.

“One would almost think that _you_ were the one courting him, with the way you act around him,” she spoke from the doorway, causing Kíli to jump a foot in the air. She hid a grin when Kíli spun around and took a hasty step away from the table, quickly hiding the pie behind his back. 

“Oh no, he’s just a friend,” he hurried to answer, putting on his best expression of innocent nonchalance. “A very good friend, but a friend nonetheless. Besides, even if I was interested - which I'm not - I like being alive too much to risk Uncle’s wrath.”

“That's good to hear. He seems to be very fond of you. I suppose that I should thank him for looking after you during the journey.”

Kíli nodded. “He took care of us all. Did you know that he saved Thorin's life several times?”

“I can believe that,” Dís said.

“So you approve of him?” Kíli asked, a hint of smile around his lips. Dís nodded. 

“I do. Thorin has chosen well.”

“Does that mean we can visit Bilbo again? Midwinter would be a good time.” He gave her his best pleading look. 

“Actually, I was thinking about inviting him to the Blue Mountains for the winter festivities,” Dís said. “He was received well the last time he was there and I think Gimli especially would like to hear more of his tales.”

Kíli's eyes lit up. “Can I invite him, then?”

“Yes, you may,” she said, smiling. “It wouldn't do to keep our family apart, would it?”

“No. It wouldn't.”

Bilbo chose that moment to appear in the doorway behind Kíli's back. He gave Dís a heartfelt smile and a nod of gratitude, not even trying to pretend that he hadn't heard them. Before he could say anything, however, his gaze fell on the pie in Kíli's hands, his eyes narrowing. Without making any sound, he took a few careful steps forward until he stood right behind Kíli's back.

“Is that my apple pie, _Kíli_?”

Kíli's eyes widened in almost comical horror.

“No?” he tried tentatively, placing the pie carefully back on the table. The hobbit folded his arms, tapping his food impatiently until Kíli shuffled back to the cabinet, obediently returning the pie back in its place. _Fascinating_ , Dís thought as she watched her son shrink in face of the Bilbo's lecture.

She couldn't wait to see Bilbo with Thorin.

_To be continued..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The character of Dís may be completely missing from the original book, but her absence has always made me all the more curious about her – who was the woman who brought up Fíli and Kíli? Who had grown up with Thorin and watched her entire family fall to madness and ruin until only she alone remained?
> 
> From what I've seen, a lot of people write her as a straight-laced character – the sassy lady who makes the dwarfs fall in line (I did so, too), but this time I've decided to take a slightly different approach. After all, Fíli and Kíli had to get their playfulness from somewhere. Why not from their mother?
> 
> Please let me know what you thought of my portrayal of her. She might not be one of the Companions, but I think she deserves a space to shine, too. The last two chapters are both very long, even after I have cut out plenty of stuff from them. I hope nobody minded the length much. I think I could write entire fics just about Dís visiting Bilbo, because it's so much fun.
> 
> Thorin's chapter will be posted on December 31, because it's long as hell (even by my standards) and I'll need plenty of time for editing. Thank you as always for all the feedback and support you give me – it gives me so much joy to work on this when I know that there are people who like the story.


	14. Thorin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Like most dwarves, Thorin had spent his life dreaming about finding his One. 
> 
> How ironic that he should find such a soul in the twilight of his life, long after he had given up on hope, and in the most unlikely of people that the Fates could have chosen for him – a halfling, a dainty little scholar who had never held a sword in his life and was more at home in a kitchen than on a battlefield.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for the slight delay in posting, but this chapter has grown into gigantic proportions (18K!) and I didn't have anything written in advance for it, so it took me longer to put it together than I had planned. 
> 
> This is the romance part of the fic – the “story behind the story”, if you wish. While the story itself fills in the blanks in the book, this chapter fills in the blanks in the story. This is all the stuff that went on behind the scenes that the other dwarves weren’t privy to. I hope you will like it :)

Countless books and songs had been written about dwarves finding their One – about the moment of recognition, the flying sparks and the connection one felt when they finally met the other half of their soul. The tales had always described it as something glorious – a moment of shared wonder between the two parties, in which they gazed upon each other and marvelled at what they had found.

Thorin had heard all the tales a thousand times and even though he scoffed at some them because he found them overblown and needlessly dramatic, he couldn't help but envy the dwarves in those stories a little. Their lives weren't always easy and some of them died in tragic ways, but while they lived, they were happy. 

In his nearly two hundred years of life, Thorin had had the opportunity to meet almost every dwarf in Middle-Earth, but no one had ever caught his eye. As years passed, he was slowly forced to face the unpleasant reality – there was no one like that for him. Some dwarves simply weren't destined to find a mate and he was one of them.

And so he gave up on foolish dreams, comforted by the knowledge that the line of Durin would continue with his sister-sons. Instead he turned towards his work – he focused on his duty as a king, took pride in his work and found fulfilment in his service to his people. Love was for the young and hopeful. At his age he was neither.

He was lost in thought as he climbed the hill in Hobbiton, his mind going over plans for the quest to retake Erebor, and so he was completely unprepared when the moment finally happened to him.

The round green door opened before him, spilling warm light onto the porch outside and when Thorin raised his head to look at the person opening the door, his breath caught in his throat. Lighting flew through his veins in a jolt of awareness that shook him down to his core, his thoughts scattered, and for a moment he could do nothing but stare at the creature in the doorway. 

The Halfling was nearly a head shorter than him, with honey-brown curls and an irritated expression on his face. Even though he was slight of built and had a generally unassuming air about him, there was a sharpness in his gaze that was at odds with the deceptively innocent face. Those clever eyes studied him with an intensity that was almost unnerving and Thorin found himself returning that gaze, unable to tear his eyes away.

Thorin had no idea what he had said to the hobbit. He only knew that his voice had been hoarse when he had finally spoken, his equilibrium taken away by the immediacy of the meeting and by the fire coursing in his veins. If he could guess, it probably wasn't anything flattering, judging by the speed with which the hobbit's expression changed from awed to annoyed.

Even years later, he still vividly remembered the evening in Bag-End.

He had been sitting at the head of the table while Gandalf explained something important about the map but Thorin barely heard a word because the hobbit chose that moment to lean over his shoulder, standing so close that Thorin could almost feel the warmth of his body. He smelled faintly of soap and grass and freshly-baked bread and it took all of Thorin’s willpower not to turn his head and bury his face into Bilbo’s shirt, his mind going blank at the hobbit’s proximity. The fact that the halfling had absolutely no idea what he was doing to him made the whole situation that much worse. 

For that moment, the hobbit's presence made him forget all about the quest and Erebor, filling his mind instead with images of blue eyes and golden curls and homemade apple pies. It took Thorin a while to gather his wits and he was glad that Gandalf had taken over most of the explanations, because his first impulse was to tell everyone that there will be no quest because he had already found his home. No doubt, that wouldn’t have been received well. 

The halfling’s fainting had been a blessing, allowing Thorin to put his thoughts in order while Gandalf carried the hobbit away and revived him. The distance helped him clear his mind a little but the hunger remained, gnawing persistently in his chest.

Thorin had kept his distance from the hobbit for the rest of the evening, his entire body thrumming just from being in the same house with him. After the third time he had to remind himself that he _really_ could not to go to the hobbit’s room, he decided to join the rest of the dwarves in the sitting room instead and sing. He put all his hope into the song, coaxing the hobbit to overcome his reluctance and join their adventure. 

As they rode away from Hobbiton the next morning, leaving the hobbit to sleep in his home, Thorin comforted himself with the thought that at least the halfling would be safe. A part of him was disappointed that the hobbit had refused to go with them, but mostly he was relieved – at least this way he would have several months to figure out what he should do about his own situation. The separation wouldn't be pleasant, but it was still a better option than having the hobbit constantly around, facing danger. 

Of course Bilbo Baggins had to go and prove all his expectations wrong.

*****

It wasn't until Thorin woke up the next morning, feeling more or less like himself again, that he fully realized what had happened. His chosen mate was a _hobbit_ , of all people. Mahal help him.

Thorin spent the following days surreptitiously watching the halfling, trying to learn more about him and so far he wasn't very impressed by what he discovered. The hobbit was meek and whiny and complained all the time. His timidity bordered on spinelessness and he couldn't seem to finish a sentence without stammering at least once. His permanent fussing soon started to get on Thorin's nerves and when the halfling began to grumble about the rain yet again, it was all Thorin could do to prevent himself from snapping at him in frustration. 

_This_ was supposed to be his perfect mate? The other half of his soul? This squeaky little mouse?

Thorin couldn't help but wonder what he had done to make the gods punish him like this. Not only was the hobbit completely unsuited to Thorin's way of life, their characters were woefully incompatible as well. So far he hadn't seen anything that would convince him of the hobbit's worth and he was beginning to doubt his own memory. Maybe it had been all a hallucination and the moment on the doorstep was just a product of too much mead and his imagination. 

But no, no matter how much he tried to deny it, the attraction was still there, despite all of his objections. His blood still sang whenever the hobbit ventured near and his fingers itched to touch, his mind filling with images of full lips and soft skin until he felt like he was slowly going mad. 

He didn't like anything about him, for Mahal's sake, so why couldn't he stop thinking about him?

“It's not that bad, you know,” Balin said a few days later, nearly causing Thorin to jump out of his skin. Thorin had sat down on a rock some distance from the others, trying to occupy his mind with something that wasn't related to Bilbo bloody Baggins, but now he stood up slowly to face his friend, keeping his expression carefully neutral.

“What are you talking about?”

Balin gave him a look. “The hobbit, of course. You shouldn't be so harsh on him. Most people would be over the moon that they have finally found someone.”

“I'm not most people,” Thorin muttered and nearly missed Balin's look of exasperation. He sighed. “But a _Halfling_ , Balin? That's almost as bad as having no one at all.”

“Nonsense,” Balin replied. “I'm sure you will learn to like him. He's quite clever, you know. You should not dismiss him without giving him a chance first.”

Thorin grimaced.

“Nobody from the line of Durin has ever had someone from a different race for a mate. What does this say about me?”

“That you make your own destiny,” Balin said mildly. “That you take what you are given and make the most of it. You have always been good at that. I'm sure this will be no different.”

Thorin's scowl deepened and he turned away, not in the mood for a lecture. He barely made three steps before Balin spoke again.

“You shouldn't be so surprised that he doesn't like you, you know, with the way you treat him,” the old dwarf said behind him, causing Thorin to turn back. “You called him a green grocer to his face when you first met him.” 

Thorin shot him a startled look. “Did I? I don't remember what I said to him.”

“No, of course you don't.” Despite his disapproving words, there was a hint of humour in Balin's voice. “If it's any consolation, you were being your usual charming self, so nobody noticed anything amiss.”

“Thank Mahal,” Thorin breathed. “It's bad enough that _you_ know about this. If the others found out...”

“They will,” Balin warned them. “They may not be the paragons of cleverness, but they will figure it out eventually.” He gave Thorin one last look before he departed, going back to the camp. 

Thorin's eyes slid over the assembled dwarves until they landed on the hobbit, who was chatting away with Bombur. He tore his gaze away with a scowl and went back to sit on the rock, watching the darkening sky. 

Having the others gossip about his private life was the last thing he needed right now.

*****

It didn't take Thorin long to discover that between the two of them, he was the only one who felt the pull. The hobbit seemed to be entirely unaffected by Thorin's presence, his reactions to the dwarf varying between wariness and annoyance. While Thorin felt the attraction like a physical thing, the hobbit remained blissfully oblivious about Thorin's struggle.

Thorin found himself quickly frustrated with his situation, his mood growing darker with each passing day, until even his nephews started to give him a wide berth. Even though he knew that it would be easier to avoid the hobbit as much as he could, there was a part of him that protested against the thought and drove him to seek the halfling out, usually with dismal results. 

“What were you doing?” he snapped at the soaking hobbit as he dragged him out of the river. “You could have drowned, you idiot!”

“What do you care?” the hobbit shot back, trying to pull his arm out of Thorin's iron grip. Thorin didn't let go until they were standing back at the shore. 

“You didn't have to do that,” the hobbit muttered irritably, rubbing his arm where Thorin had held him. “I could have climbed out of the water on my own.”

“Why didn't you go with the others?” Thorin asked. 

The hobbit gave him an annoyed look. “Because I like my privacy.”

“There's no such thing as privacy out here on the road,” Thorin told him and was taken aback by the flash of anger in those eyes. This was the first time since they had met him that the halfling had shown true anger and by Mahal, he looked glorious with his eyes flashing like that. Thorin took a step closer without even realising it, his gaze focused on the way the hobbit's wet shirt clung to his skin. The halfling stood his ground, his chin raised in defiance.

Thorin had no idea what either one of them said after that, his brain too muddled, but their row ended with the hobbit storming off and Thorin taking a long, cold bath in the river.

*****

He honestly hadn't meant to spy on the halfling's private conversation with Bombur. He had gone for a walk in the forest before dinner that night, hoping to clear his mind a bit. Then those two came and started talking not far from the place where he was sitting, making it impossible for him to leave without making them aware of his presence. Thorin had intended to simply keep still and wait for them to return back to the camp, but when the hobbit started badmouthing him, he couldn't help but retaliate.

“So, I am rude, am I?” 

The halfling looked up sharply when Thorin spoke, his face going pale.

“I beg you pardon?” There was a slight tremor of nervousness in his voice, but his gaze was steady when his eyes met Thorin's.

“I couldn't help but overhear part of your conversation with Bombur,” Thorin said. “Is that what you really think of me?”

The halfling visibly hesitated, weighing his answer. In the end he seemed to decide that honesty was the best policy.

“Why would I lie to Bombur?” he asked quietly. He didn't wait for Thorin's reply, hurrying to catch up with the red-haired dwarf, who was waiting for him on the edge of the forest. Thorin stared after him, disappointment flooding him like a bitter wave. 

So it was true. The hobbit really didn't care about him. 

If only Thorin could say the same.

*****

Balin had seen through him right away, of course - but then Balin had always been far too perceptive. None of the others seemed to notice Thorin’s unease around the hobbit, mistaking it for scorn, and he was only too glad for that. He wasn't in the mood to deal with their smirks and knowing looks. What surprised him though was the fact that the wizard hadn’t seen through his facade. Even in Rivendell, he took Thorin’s jealousy for contempt, going as far as to laud Bilbo’s qualities on several different occasions, hoping to convince Thorin of the hobbit’s worth.

As if he needed to, Thorin thought with a snort as he watched the hobbit talk to the elves. Over the several days they had spent in Rivendell he had relaxed from his uptight manner and the change was a wonder to behold. While with the dwarves he was always a bit reserved, uncomfortable with their antics, he seemed to positively glow under all the attention that the tree-shaggers were giving him. 

Bilbo spent his days chatting with the elves, who seemed to be genuinely charmed by him. At first Thorin had thought that they were merely humouring the hobbit, pretending to laugh at his jokes only to ridicule him behind his back, but as he watched, he had to admit that the hobbit really was charming and witty – he had just never bothered to show those qualities around the Company. 

It wasn't easy for Thorin to admit it, even to himself, but he now had to concede that he might have judged the hobbit too hastily. He had been so disturbed by his strong reaction to the hobbit that he had let his old prejudices blind him and make him unwilling to listen to reason. Bilbo wasn't the dim-witted weakling Thorin had taken him for at first, no – he was actually quite interesting. 

Now that he had an appreciative audience, the hobbit flourished like a flower in sunlight, the full force of his personality coming through in his dealings with the elves and Thorin found himself intrigued. What else was he hiding? What other secrets did he have tucked behind those far-too-knowing eyes?

It was a shock to hear Bilbo sing, even though it shouldn’t have been, really. 

Thorin had caught the hobbit humming several times before when he’d been gathering herbs in the woods, but he had always fallen silent when Thorin had ventured near. That evening however, he let voice fly free, his face shining with joy as he sang for the elves. Thorin had decided not to come inside the music hall – if he had, the others would only need to take a single look on his face to know of his predicament. Instead he had opted to remain in the shadows, seeing but unseen. 

During a ballad about the love of a human and an elf (Thorin didn’t bother to recall their names), Bilbo’s eyes found his, sending a jolt of awareness through his body. The hobbit had looked surprised to see him there at first, but soon a small smile found its way on his face and he held Thorin's gaze for several stanzas before his attention got diverted by Elrond’s daughter.

Thorin remained standing by the door for the rest of the evening, but Bilbo didn't look at him again.

*****

Thorin had no idea why he had hugged Bilbo on that rock.

He only knew that he had been half dead at that moment, mangled from the warg's teeth and hurting in more places than he cared to count, and the hobbit had been so close, miraculously unharmed even after challenging Azog himself. 

And so Thorin had hugged him, soaking up the warmth and the faint smell of grass that seemed to cling to Bilbo's skin even when he was dirty and charred from the fire. The hobbit's hands were a bit hesitant when they wrapped around his waist, mindful of his injuries, but he was smiling and Thorin had finally felt peace after so many months of restlessness.

The Companions were all exhausted and fell asleep as soon as the sun set, but Thorin lay awake for a bit longer, watching the stars and marvelling at the fact that they had survived. Bilbo had saved his life. Even after the way Thorin had treated him and their countless arguments, Bilbo had still risked his life to save Thorin's. Thorin didn't know what it meant, but it gave him hope for the future. 

For the next few days he watched the interaction between Bilbo and the rest of the group, trying to come up with the best way to approach the hobbit. Even though he tried his best not to be affected, he still felt a little envious of the easy camaraderie that the hobbit had with the other dwarves. They joked and laughed and shared stories while Thorin sat in a corner, watching them wistfully and when he approached, their eyes always grew wary, their postures a little less open. 

Thorin supposed it was his own fault. He had never made much effort to become part of the group, his status as the leader always keeping him at a distance from the others. He had never been good at dealing with others on a more personal level, so it was no wonder that he had no idea how to make close friends, much less how to court someone. 

His conversation with Dwalin had been a complete disaster, but at least he had managed to convince his friend to give the halfling lessons in sword-fighting. 

He was still feeling a bit jittery when he came back into the house to tell the hobbit of his decision, only to find him missing. He sent Kíli to search for him while he sat down with Óin, giving into the old dwarf's request to check his wounds. Kíli had a strange expression on his face when he came back from the garden but didn't share the reason for it.

“Bilbo is by the brook in the back garden,” he said and scuttled away to whisper something to Fíli that made them both burst out laughing.

Thorin ignored their antics and went out to search for Bilbo, who was indeed sitting by the brook, just like Kíli had said. Only, he wasn't alone. 

Bilbo was sitting on the grass with Bofur, the two of them chatting amiably as they basked in the sun. Even though their manner was perfectly friendly, Thorin still felt the stab of jealousy that flared through his veins at the sight of his mate sitting half naked with another man. Thorin felt his heartbeat pick up as took in the picture before him. 

The hobbit truly wasn't wearing much – his careful layers of clothing had been cast away for the washing, leaving him only in a pair of short white pants that barely reached his knees. Thorin was torn between feasting his eyes on all the naked skin and turning his eyes away in respect of the hobbit's modesty. Before he could decide however, Bofur spotted him, hastily standing up and handing Bilbo his clothes. The dwarf gave Thorin a small bow and backed away as fast as he could. 

Thorin let him be, turning his attention to the hobbit instead. Bilbo was still sitting on the grass, watching Thorin with a frown.

“Thorin?” he asked tentatively. “Are you feeling well?”

Thorin realised with a jolt that he'd been staring at the hobbit's collar bones and hastily raised his eyes back to the hobbit's face. Apparently it hadn't been quick enough, because Bilbo stood up, taking a few steps towards Thorin. 

“I think you should sit down for a bit. You look a bit pale.”

“What?” Thorin pulled himself from his reverie. “No, I am quite well, thank you.” 

He clenched his hands into fists at his sides, his fingers itching with the urge to touch. The hobbit's skin was golden in the soft light of the morning sun and it was all Thorin could do to stop himself from reaching forward and running his fingertips over it to find out if it was truly as silky smooth as it looked. It would be so easy – the hobbit stood less than three feet away from him. Thorin would only need to take a single step forward to be close enough to touch.

Thorin did none of those things, because the look in Bilbo's eyes stopped him before he could so much as raise a hand. Bilbo didn't look afraid or repulsed, or even seductive – no, he looked concerned. There was not a trace of love or lust in those eyes, only honest concern for Thorin's well-being and it was more sobering that if he had flinched away in disgust from Thorin's touch.

It was that look that brought Thorin back to reality – they weren't a pair of lovers having a clandestine rendezvous by the river – just two awkward acquaintances who happened to be travelling together. There was no romance going on between them – that was all in Thorin's head, conjured up by vengeful gods who found enjoyment in toying with the minds of mortals. 

At that moment, Thorin felt shame. Shame for his lack of control, for his inability to hold a conversation with the hobbit that would not end with one of them stomping off, for his ignorance about the matters of love. He closed his eyes, took several deep breaths and wished he could just disappear somewhere for a few minutes. 

A soft touch on his shoulder made him open his eyes again. Bilbo stood before him, one of his hands laid carefully on Thorin's left shoulder.

“Come and sit down for a bit before you faint. Those wounds from the warg were bad and you still haven't healed. You shouldn't be straining yourself too much.”

Feeling too dazed to protest, Thorin let the hobbit lead him towards the river and help him sit down. Bilbo plopped down next to him, leaving a foot of space between them. He was still watching Thorin with a concerned frown, but Thorin kept his eyes studiously averted, finding a sudden fascination with the trees around them.

“I am gratified to see you unharmed,” Thorin said finally in a desperate attempt to break the awkward silence that had fallen. “There aren't many who would be willing to face down Azog.”

Bilbo shrugged. “You were in danger. I couldn't just let them cut off your head.”

Thorin gave him a small smile. “And you have my gratitude for that.” 

The hobbit smiled back, still tentative but honest enough.

“However,” Thorin continued, “I am afraid that I cannot in good conscience let you continue this journey without giving you some means to protect yourself. All the members of the Company can hold their own against an armed opponent. You have a sword, so you should learn how to use it. There may come a time when luck won't be enough to help you survive.”

Bilbo shot him a look. “What if I don't want to fight?”

“You do not have a choice in this matter,” Thorin said. “The road ahead is still long and dangerous and I refuse to be responsible if you get hurt.”

“You didn't seem to care until now,” Bilbo said, his open expression closing down into the more familiar frosty politeness with which he had been treating Thorin for the past two months. “Why is it suddenly an issue?”

“That is none of your concern,” Thorin bit out, a little sharper than he had intended and could have cursed himself when the hobbit pulled back, all traces of friendliness gone from is face. 

“Oh look! My clothes have dried,” Bilbo announced archly, jumping up to gather his garments. Thorin stood up as well, mindful of his injuries, and watched the hobbit pull his clothes on with sharp, annoyed movements. 

“It would ease my heart to know that you are not completely vulnerable,” Thorin tried again, but Bilbo pointedly ignored him, lacing up his trousers. “In any way, I have already arranged your lessons with Dwalin.”

That got Bilbo's attention. He straightened up with a look of horror.

“Dwalin? No. Absolutely not. I'll just ask Fíli or Kíli.” 

“You will learn from Dwalin and that's my final word,” Thorin said. He then turned away and started walking back, ignoring the angry muttering behind him. He knew that he was doing what was best for Bilbo, but that didn't prevent him from feeling bad about their exchange. That had gone as badly as it could have. How on earth were they supposed to get married if they couldn't hold a conversation that didn't dissolve into a fight?

Whoever had thought that they were a good match couldn't have been more wrong.

*****

The hobbit was ignoring him.

There was no other word for it. Bilbo hadn't spoken a word to him since that morning by the river. He still answered Thorin when they talked in a group setting, but made obvious effort to avoid ever talking to Thorin in private. He still acted the same with everyone else – warm and friendly, willing to share in their jokes and stories, but when Thorin ventured near, his face closed down and his back straightened, as if he was waiting for Thorin to insult him again.

And so Thorin kept his distance, watching Bilbo from afar while the frustration slowly bubbled under his skin. He was supposed to be wooing him, for Mahal's sake! They should be having long talks by the fire and secret meetings beneath the trees, not this frosty silence. Only, Thorin had no idea how to go about that. Every attempt he had made thus far to talk to the hobbit had always ended in a disaster. 

Romance had never been a matter Thorin had taken much interest in. He had never met anyone whom he would be willing to court and the few lovers he'd had over the years had always pursued him, not the other way around. As a king, he had always had plenty of people vying for (and in most cases failing to receive) his favour, so there had never been any need for him to learn how to charm someone.

He refused to ask Balin for advice - the old dwarf was already watching his behaviour with a disappointed frown, and Dwalin was completely out of question – if anything, Dwalin was even worse at these matters than Thorin himself, so there would be no point in asking him. He could try talking to Glóin, but the ginger dwarf had never been known for his secrecy and Thorin didn't trust any of the others with this. This left him in a stalemate – a most boring, frustrating stalemate.

“Have I ever told you about the time I got drunk and ran naked through the Craftsmen's District?” Bofur's voice brought Thorin out of his reverie. They were sitting by the fire on yet another evening in the forest, trying their best to ignore the ever-present eyes in the darkness. It seemed that Bofur had taken it upon himself to provide that evening's entertainment.

The others shook their heads, leaning forward in anticipation. Bofur grinned.

“Aye, it was a bet with some of the lads from the pub. They bet that I wouldn't be able to run from the gate to the bakery without getting caught. I'd had a few pints by the time I got to it, so it seemed like a marvellous idea.”

“And did you? Get caught?” Bilbo asked, amusement clear in his eyes.

“Nah,” Bofur shook his head. “It was already after midnight and the guards at the gate were sleepy, so I shuck off my clothes behind the pub and just ran. Unfortunately I got spotted by one of the Night Watchmen, who started chasing me.”

“What happened?” Kíli asked eagerly. Bofur's grin widened even further.

“Well, there was a nifty little pigpen nearby. I took a small detour.”

“You hid in a pigpen?” Glóin asked, incredulous.

“Aye.” Bofur nodded. “The pigs were real friendly, let me stay for a while without making a fuss. Unfortunately it was dark, the pen hadn't been cleaned properly and my coordination wasn't at its best.”

That prompted a round of horrified laughter from them all, their faces scrunching up in disgust.

“It was just a hand, mind you,” Bofur assured them. “I didn't actually sit down in it. But still, it smelled horrible. I managed to get to the bakery eventually and win the bet, but no matter how much I scrubbed my hands, I still smelled like pig dung for weeks afterwards.”

They all roared in laughter, the hobbit's voice joining in the merriment. Bilbo had long stopped being offended by the crude dwarvish humour and while they still had to coax him to get some good stories out of him, he was now more than happy to laugh at their jokes. 

“And what about you, Bilbo?” Bofur threw an arm around the hobbit's shoulders. “Any interesting stories you would like to share with us?”

Bilbo pretended reluctance for a moment, lowering his eyes bashfully before a playful grin appeared on his face.

“Well, there was that one time at the Green Dragon...”

Thorin watched the arm around Bilbo's shoulders with narrowed eyes, feeling a stab of jealousy at the familiar way with which the other dwarves treated the hobbit. There was always someone touching him – a pat on the shoulder, a slap on the back, a hand on the upper arm. Bilbo was a tactile creature by nature and seemed to enjoy the friendliness, so he usually returned the touches with a smile, pleased by the affection the others were showing him.

Bilbo touched everyone – everyone that is, except for Thorin. 

Thorin followed Bilbo's movements with his eyes, studying the hobbit's hands, and wondered what it would feel like to have those hands tangled in his hair or brushing across his skin. They were small, clever hands, tanned deep golden from the sun, those delicate fingers so unlike his own. They would surely feel nice braiding his hair...if Thorin ever managed to get the hobbit to like him first.

The touches between Bilbo and the dwarves were always perfectly friendly, but that knowledge didn't make Thorin envy the others any less. They got to bask in Bilbo's attention, listen to his stories and share his secrets while he sat in a corner, feeling angry with his own incompetence. At night they all slept close together, unnerved by the unseen creatures in the dark and Bilbo always slept right in the middle of the group, tucked between Kíli and Bofur. Thorin could sometimes hear them whispering long into the night, but he never got to hear what they were saying.

After being forced to watch yet another evening of Bilbo and Bofur giggling together, Thorin snapped. He gave Bofur the midnight watch and waited for the rest of the Company to fall asleep before he walked over to the tree where the dwarf sat, his face illuminated by the last glowing embers from the fire. 

“What are your intentions towards the hobbit?” Thorin asked without preamble. Bofur's eyebrows shot up at the unexpected question.

“Purely friendly, if you must know, but I don’t see how that’s any of your business.” He cocked his head, giving Thorin a contemplative look. “You know, you haven’t made any sort of official claim yet, so you have no right to be jealous of anyone.”

Thorin clenched his hands into fists, torn between the desire to confess his troubles and the impulse to tell the dwarf to mind his own business. Bofur seemed to understand his dilemma, though, his expression softening a bit when he saw Thorin's tense posture.

“Look,” he said, “I understand that what you're going through isn't easy, but you shouldn't treat him like dirt just because he's not throwing himself in your arms at your beck and call. You can’t expect him to just miraculously know about your intentions if you don't tell him anything.”

“What am I supposed to do, then?” Thorin gritted out, feeling irritated that he had to stoop so low that he was asking _Bofur_ for advice. Still, the cat was out of the bag already and the dwarf was close to Bilbo, so he might know something that could help Thorin.

“Talking would be a good start,” Bofur said. “I haven’t seen you speak more than three words to him since we set out. It's no wonder he doesn't know what you want from him if you never tell him. Anyway, if you want him to spend his time with you, you should try doing _something_ besides glaring from a distance. That only makes him think that you hate him.” 

“I don't,” Thorin blurted out before he could think better.

“I know,” Bofur looked like he desperately wanted to turn his eyes skywards, “but Bilbo doesn't.” He sighed. “Talk to him. Any attempt is better than nothing.”

*****

And so it began.

Their first few conversations had been painfully awkward, the hobbit watching him with wary eyes as they exchanged stilted lines about the forest and the journey, but it slowly got better. It only took several days for the hobbit to stop tensing up whenever Thorin came near and his expression lost some of its guarded apprehension. Still, even though they talked, there was never the same air of effortless camaraderie between them that Bilbo had with the others. Instead there was tension – a strange undercurrent in the air that Thorin did not know how to dispel. 

His efforts were cut short by his arrest at the hands of the elves. While he'd been relieved to hear that everyone had survived the spider attack, he couldn't help but despair a little, because September was already passing in the world outside and several dozen miles still lay between them and the mountain. If they didn't get to the mountain on time, their whole quest would have been for nothing.

The days in the cell seemed to go on forever. He was in the deepest dungeon, so few guards ever passed his door and there was nothing to entertain him for long stretches of time. Bilbo didn't visit very often. Thorin tried not to take it too personally, because he knew that running from dwarf to dwarf had to be exhausting, but he still couldn't help but wish that Bilbo would come to see him more often. 

“Any progress?” Thorin asked when Bilbo appeared at his door for the third time. He had risen from his bed at the first sign of the hobbit's approach and now stood at the door, watching Bilbo through the bars.

The hobbit shook his head wearily, leaning on the wall beside the door.

“I have made a map of the palace for Nori and we have been trying to come up with a plan, but so far we haven't discovered anything that would work. Don't lose hope,” he said when he saw Thorin's frown. “There are still some parts of the palace that I haven't explored yet. I will find us a way out.”

“We will all be deeply in your debt if you do,” Thorin said. 

Before he could think better of it, he gave into the impulse and reached for Bilbo's hand. He lifted it gently from its place on the bar and held it in his own, marvelling at how small it was. The hobbit tensed a bit when Thorin touched him, but didn't pull his hand back. When Thorin lifted his gaze to look at him, Bilbo's eyes were flickering between their clasped hands and Thorin's face with a mixture of confusion and disbelief.

“Truly, where would we be without you?” Thorin dropped his voice into a murmur and was gratified to see Bilbo's eyes widen a fraction when he ran his thumb over the hobbit's knuckles. 

“Dead, most likely,” Bilbo finally found his voice, but instead of dry like he had probably intended, his answer came out a bit breathy. His eyes flickered to their hands again. “Thorin you don't have to-”

“What if I wish to?” Thorin gave him an intent look, willing Bilbo to understand. Judging by the hobbit's soft intake of breath a second later, he did. 

“Oh,” he said softly, looking like he'd just had a revelation of some sort. “I thought you didn't like me.”

“No.” Thorin shook his head. “Please do not think that. It was not my intention to give you that impression.”

Bilbo took a step closer to the bars, studying Thorin's face.

“I did not know that. You are not easy to read for me.” He lowered his gaze to the ground. “This is all a bit sudden. I will need some time to think about this before I can give you an answer.”

“Of course,” Thorin said, trying not to feel disappointed. “Take as much time as you wish.”

Bilbo remained close for a little longer before he gently pulled his hand from Thorin's grasp.

“I should go. The guards will be coming here soon. I'll let you know the moment I find out anything.”

He turned to leave, but before he could disappear, Thorin called after him: “Bilbo!”

“Yes?” The hobbit looked back, clearly surprised by Thorin's use of his given name.

“Please think about it,” Thorin told him.

“As if I could forget,” Thorin heard Bilbo mutter under his breath before he spoke up. “I will, but let's get out of here first. This is not a good time or place for such matters.” He put on his magic ring and disappeared, leaving without a sound.

“When is it ever?” Thorin muttered and went to sit back on his bed.

*****

He didn’t find about the full extent of Bilbo’s heroics until Lake-town. Bilbo had been surprisingly humble when he had told him about his involvement with the spiders in Thranduil’s dungeon, so it wasn’t until the dwarves had sat down with Thorin and told him about the spiders and the magic ring that he had learned the whole story. It was very telling that even Dwalin looked impressed, calling Bilbo a worthy warrior.

It seemed that the dwarves had started to look up to the hobbit as the leader of the company in Thorin’s absence, so from then on Thorin made it a point to include Bilbo in all his decisions, consulting him about ideas for the journey. Bilbo took his new elevation in status in stride, and his newfound confidence from the forest didn’t leave him since. 

As much as he disliked the sight of Kíli touching Bilbo's hair so intimately, Thorin had to admit that the idea with the hair clasp had been ingenious. He had never paid much attention to the hobbit's ears before but now they were fully on display and despite their elvish look, Thorin found them quite attractive. He soon discovered that when Bilbo blushed, the crimson from the cheeks spread over his ears as well, turning them a most delightful shade of red. 

It was rather adorable, but then, almost everything about the hobbit was endearing in one way or another - from his curly hair to his horribly impractical way of dressing to his hairy toes. Bilbo was a study in paradoxes – mild-mannered but fierce, patient but temperamental, clever and well-read but strangely ignorant about the uglier aspects of the world. He could kill an orc in the blink of an eye and yet his eyes still remained innocent, untouched by the evils of the world. It intrigued Thorin to no end and he couldn't wait to learn more about him.

Luckily for Thorin, Bilbo's surprise birthday party proved a perfect opportunity for that. The hobbit had walked in with Fíli and Kíli, halting in his tracks when he discovered the dwarves waiting for him in the dining room. His moment of surprise gave Thorin a chance to study him in his new clothes and memorise the look of wonder on Bilbo's face when he learnt that his friends had thrown him a birthday party. 

Thorin made an oath to himself to try and make the hobbit look like that as often as possible in the future. 

While the others fussed over him, Thorin held back, watching from a corner. He absently noted that the colour of the jacket made the blue in Bilbo's eyes stand out, making him look even more handsome than he already did. He waited until the others were busy with the gems before he stepped forward and led the hobbit to the corner where they wouldn't be overheard.

“Thank you,” Thorin told him.

“What for?” Bilbo asked, looking a bit unsure.

“For all you have done for us,” Thorin said. “You saved them from the spiders, got us all out of prison and still found the energy to get everyone a present. You do more for us than we ever asked of you and I am fully aware of it. I would not want you to think that your efforts are unappreciated.”

His mind briefly flashed toward the morning by the river where he had managed to make his thanks sound more like a censure of the hobbit's shortcomings. That hadn't been one of his finer moments.

The hobbit studied him face for a moment before he nodded slightly, accepting the gesture. 

“Is that what this is?” he asked, looking around at the room. “A thank-you feast?”

Thorin smiled slightly.

“Yes, among other things. Everyone was quite distressed when they heard that you had missed your birthday, so they decided to throw a feast in your honour. I hope it's to your liking.”

Bilbo smiled, looking back at the squabbling dwarves. 

“It is, very much. I didn't expect it.”

“It was supposed to be a surprise. Our friends will be happy to hear that they had succeeded.” He gave the hobbit an appreciative once-over, letting his eyes linger just a little longer than would be strictly polite. “You bought yourself new clothes.”

“I did,” Bilbo nodded. “They are a bit different from what I'm used to, but nice enough. Us hobbits tend to lean more towards earthly colours like crimson, brown, green and yellow, so wearing blue is a bit strange for me.” 

“It suits you,” Thorin told him and was pleased when the hobbit ducked his head, blushing. 

“There's enough money in that pouch for all of you to buy new clothes,” Bilbo said finally. “I meant it when I said that the gems were for all of you.”

“I will consider it,” Thorin said, shooting a glance towards the table, where the rest of the dwarves were still bent over the gems, arguing over the best pieces. “It would be nice to not look like a beggar when we arrive to the mountain.” He gave the hobbit a look, lowering his voice. “Have you given any thought to the matter that we spoke about in the elvish caves?”

Bilbo's blush deepened, but he didn't lower his eyes. “I will consider it,” he said, echoing Thorin's words. There was a spark of playfulness in his eyes that gave Thorin hope that maybe his pursuit wasn't a completely lost cause. Thorin's smile widened.

“Please do. I will await your answer, whenever you choose to give it.”

“You could wait for a long time,” Bilbo warned him. 

“I have waited for almost two hundred years, Master Burglar,” Thorin told him and watched the spark of awareness light up in Bilbo's eyes when he understood the implication. “Waiting a little longer will not kill me.” 

Before the hobbit could recover from his shock, Thorin gave him a small bow and walked back to the table. He might buy those clothes after all.

*****

If Thorin was completely honest with himself (and he always tried to be), he had been hesitant about making his interest known to the hobbit for a long time. It hadn’t been fear of rejection that had held him back so much as it had been pride - the small nagging voice in the back of his mind reminding him that his kinsmen would never accept a Halfling as the King’s Consort.

All his life, he had always put duty first, giving it priority over any personal matters. When Erebor fell, he had gathered up his courage and stepped up as the leader of their newly-homeless nation despite being barely more than a lad, because his father and grandfather had been too weighted down by despair to make any decisions about their people. At the battle of Azanulbizar he had managed to suppress his own grief long enough to rally their dwindling forces and drive the orcs back into the mines.

To make a choice for himself that could potentially alienate him from his people was a highly risky step for Thorin, especially since he was soon going to be the King Under the Mountain. The reward that was supposedly waiting for him at the end of his endeavour (eternal love of a perfect mate) seemed more like a fairytale story than a real possibility and Thorin had never been one to give into idle dreams.

Balin had been the one to finally convince him that Bilbo was worth the risk. 

His old friend came to him during one of the evenings after they left the Lake-town behind and sat down beside him. Thorin followed Balin's gaze and they both watched from afar as Bilbo chatted with the Lake-men, making them laugh at one of his remarks. The rest of the Company mostly avoided the men and spoke to them only when it was absolutely necessary, but Bilbo seemed to enjoy talking to them. 

“He’s very charming, isn’t he?” Balin said, watching the hobbit fondly.

“You already know what I think about him, Balin,” Thorin muttered.

“Indeed, I do.” Balin’s gaze was way too knowing. “I also know that despite your regard for him, you do not give him enough credit. You must know that nobody in the Company would oppose it if you started to court him.”

“No, not the Company,” Thorin sighed, seeing the truth of Balin's words. The Companions all liked Bilbo and would be probably delighted if Thorin chose him. “But what about the others? Dáin and his people? Our kin from Blue Mountains? They would never accept him.”

“You may be surprised,” Balin said. “He has already proved himself several times over to be a worthy companion. And – even if he hadn’t already showed his bravery in battle – you forget his other qualities.”

“Which ones?”

“He is clever, discreet and very, very loyal. He has a good heart, but enough cunning to keep others from taking advantage of his generosity. And he has charm. Look at them,” Balin nodded towards the boatmen. “They have willingly agreed to supply us with enough food to last us for months. While we were shut in the house, he sweet-talked half the town into giving us their provisions. 

“Not to mention the elves. A few words in elvish and a bat of his baby blues and he had all the elves in Rivendell eating out of his hand. Beorn adored him as well. I wonder if his charm would work on Thranduil.”

Thorin gave him a look. “What’s your point?”

“I’m just saying, he would make a wonderful diplomat at your court. He would help you improve relations with all the neighbouring nations. I bet that with enough persuasion, he could even convince the elves to support your claim to the throne. Even if he weren’t a warrior, he would still be an enormous asset for you, especially since your manners tend to be less than charming when you’re forced to deal with foreign delegations.”

Thorin scowled, but couldn’t dispute the truth of that remark. Balin laid a hand on Thorin’s arm.

“You shouldn’t hesitate to make your interest known to him.”

Thorin sighed.

“What if my interest isn’t reciprocated?”

Balin gave him a grin. 

“Oh, I think it’s very much reciprocated, you’re just too intimidating. He will never approach you first, so you’ll have to prove your legendary bravery and be the one to ask him.”

Thorin’s gaze wandered back to the hobbit, who was chatting away with Bombur as they gutted the fish, before he turned back to Balin. 

“Do you really think it could work, Balin?” he asked quietly, letting his friend see all his doubt and hesitation. The old dwarf smiled.

“I think it could work wonderfully. The gods know what they are doing. Give him a chance.”

Thorin sighed, feeling the force of destiny gathering up behind him like a wave. 

“Yes,” he whispered. “I think I will.”

*****

Wooing Bilbo wasn't as hard as Thorin had feared. Now that they were finally on friendly terms, their talks became much more pleasant. As they got closer to the mountain with each passing day, Thorin found himself sharing stories from his youth, tales of his childhood exploits in the lands around the river. Bilbo listened with a smile, his eyes roaming over the mountainside as he tried to imagine the way it had looked in ages long past.

In return Bilbo told him about his life in the Shire, his travels and dealings with annoying relatives. The last topic became particularly popular with Fíli and Kíli and they would often ask him to describe Lobelia's visits in Bag-End, giggling whenever he arrived to the part with stolen silver spoons. Thorin looked on with gladness, feeling pleased that Bilbo had such a good relationship with his nephews. 

Bilbo's evening tales provided entertainment for the entire company and even though Thorin couldn't care less about the elves in those stories, he couldn't deny that some of those tales were fascinating. The hobbit usually tended to favour grand legends involving battles and heroic deeds, so it was quite surprising when he took a detour from the elves and men of old and told the dwarves about the battle in the Shire.

“That was quite the story you told there,” Thorin told Bilbo afterwards, coming to sit beside him.

Bilbo was sitting on a large rock some distance from the fire, gazing at the stars. It was dark already, but the moon was three quarters full, giving off enough light for them to see each other. 

Bilbo gave him a playful smile. “You didn’t expect me to have such a heroic ancestor, did you?”

Thorin shook his head.

“I admit that I have never heard of Bandobras Took before, but he certainly wouldn’t have been out of place among dwarves. However, that is not what I meant.” He gave the hobbit a look. “Why did you tell it the way you did?”

Bilbo didn’t even pretend confusion at the question. He gave a small sigh, lowering his gaze to the ground.

“Because I don’t want Kíli to feel bad about him not getting to be a king. He has such a wonderful relationship with his brother and it would be a shame to have it soured by squabbles over the crown.”

“Kíli doesn’t want to be a king,” Thorin said. 

“That’s good to hear.” Bilbo turned to look at him. “I wouldn’t want him to feel like somebody less worthy just because he doesn’t have a title. He should know that he doesn’t have to prove anything to anyone.” 

Thorin had a strong suspicion that they weren’t talking about Kíli anymore. 

“It is not so simple,” he said quietly. “There are obligations, duties, expectations...” He fell silent when a small hand landed on one of his own, squeezing gently.

“Who are you doing this for, Thorin, really?” Bilbo asked, cocking his head to the side. “Is it your people, who have considered you their king for more than a hundred years now? Or is it you, because you feel that you have something to prove to yourself?”

Bilbo’s gaze suggested that he already knew the answer. The only question was – did Thorin?

Bilbo gave him an understanding smile and withdrew his hand to lay it briefly on Thorin’s shoulder before stood up and he walked back to the fire, leaving Thorin to his thoughts.

Thorin sat there for a long time that night.

*****

Thorin had never questioned his decision to go on the quest during the course of their journey. Erebor was part of their legacy and it was only right that they should get it back.

Indeed, he had never questioned that decision before - not until they were standing in front of the open door to Erebor and Bilbo announced that he was going inside to take a look at the mountain. 

While Thorin rationally knew that this was what they had hired him for, he still couldn't help but curse himself for his choice to take the hobbit with them in the first place. What if something happened to him? What if the dragon ate him? Before he could stop him however, Bilbo was already gone, lost somewhere in the depths of the mountain. There was nothing left for them to do but wait.

The hobbit's first venture into the mountain ended in roaring success and even thought they had been dismayed to learn that the dragon was still alive and well inside, nothing could diminish their joy from the cup Bilbo had brought them. His second journey had been a lot more dangerous and they all tensed when they heard the dragon awaken inside. 

The hour that followed – an hour of uncertainty, fear and heart stopping terror when they heard the dragon's roar – had been one of the longest in Thorin's life. The minutes seemed to stretch forever until Bilbo finally emerged, charred and a bit woozy from the fumes, but otherwise unharmed. He had stumbled out of the door and fallen right into Thorin's arms, his legs going weak, and Thorin had never been so glad to see anyone in his life.

When Bilbo offered to visit the dragon's lair for the third time, Thorin couldn't bear it any longer. He had planned to approach Bilbo with an offer after he was crowned, but with death almost at their fingertips such plans now seemed downright ridiculous. While the others remained sitting near the destroyed entrance to the secret tunnel, too afraid to go any further, Thorin took a torch and followed Bilbo down the corridor.

“Master Baggins,” he said when Bilbo turned to walk out of the tunnel. The hobbit looked at him expectantly. Thorin tried again. “Bilbo, I...” Words failed him. 

What did one say in such a situation? There could be a dragon right around the corner, waiting for the hobbit to come back. How disappointing would it be if their last moment together was filled with nothing but awkward silence?

Before his courage could fail him as well, Thorin swooped down and planted a short kiss on Bilbo's mouth. He pulled back right after, prepared or an angry outburst or shocked sputtering, but received neither. Instead he saw...hope? Bilbo gave him a long, searching look before he slowly tilted his face up, his eyes meeting Thorin's in a hesitant invitation. 

This time Thorin approached him with more caution, leaning down slowly until their lips met again. It was just a gentle brush of lips, sweet in its chasteness, but it still made Thorin's blood sing with delight and he closed his eyes, enjoying the sensations. 

This. This was homecoming. No mountain or jewels, no matter how splendid in their majesty, could ever compare to this feeling. This sense of belonging, of completion was unlike anything he had ever felt before and he realised that he could happily spend the rest of his life kissing Bilbo Baggins.

Bilbo kissed a little timidly at first, as if he couldn't quite believe that this was really happening, but soon grew bolder, sliding his hands up to grip Thorin's shoulders. Thorin mentally thanked himself that he'd had the presence of mind to put the torch in the holder before he had started the conversation, because it now left his hands free to wrap them around Bilbo's waist and pull the hobbit closer. Soon he forgot all about torches and dragons, losing himself in the kiss. 

Thorin nipped on the hobbit's plump lower lip, enjoying Bilbo's little shiver of pleasure, and when the mouth beneath his opened in invitation, he dove right in. There was so much to explore and so little time. It had been decades since Thorin had done any of this, but apparently he wasn't doing so badly, because Bilbo seemed to be positively melting under his touch. Thorin deepened the kiss a little more and Bilbo groaned into his mouth, burying his fingers in Thorin's hair. 

A distant sound from the tunnel finally pulled them out of their daze, reminding them of their situation. Thorin ended the kiss with a few smaller pecks against Bilbo's lips before he finally pulled back and couldn't help but feel quite pleased when he saw the hobbit's glazed eyes and kiss-swollen lips. Bilbo leaned back against the wall behind him, breathing deeply for a moment before he finally snapped out of his haze.

“Right. Dragon,” he said, his eyes still on Thorin. “I should probably-” he gestured vaguely in the general direction of the treasure hall.

“Oh, yes. You should go,” Thorin said, his voice sounding unconvincing even to himself.

“Right,” Bilbo said again, but didn't move. “Will you wish me luck?”

“Good luck,” Thorin whispered. Neither of them moved.

“Erm, you are still-” Bilbo's eyes slid down, where Thorin's arms were still wrapped around his waist. 

“Oh,” Thorin said, letting him go. They stood there looking at each other for a moment longer, their bodies just a few inches apart, neither of them knowing what to say. 

Bilbo solved the dilemma by leaning forward and giving Thorin one last long, lingering kiss before he finally stepped away and disappeared into the darkness. Thorin remained behind, staring after the hobbit in silent wonder.

Then his eyes fell on that hoard and all was lost.

*****

Waking from the gold-fever was a slow and painful process.

Thorin sat on the stairs of the treasury, feeling sick to his stomach. The torch he had brought with him had burned out long ago but he didn't care, lost in his own mind. 

What had he done? 

The memories came back to him bit by bit, the fog in his mind receding slowly to reveal the full extent of his madness. While before he had existed in a dreamy haze, now everything was razor sharp, the events of the past few weeks hitting him like a wave - his joy at discovering the treasure, his obsession with the jewels, his blindness to anything that wasn't gold. He had forgotten about Bilbo, about his family, cast away everything he had worked for his entire life - and all for a few pieces of treasure.

The memory of his outburst on the wall cut him like a knife and he buried his face in his hands, taking in a shuddering breath to prevent himself from throwing up. He had threatened to kill Bilbo, the one person he had sworn to protect and cherish. Thorin remembered the look in Bilbo's eyes when he had held him over the wall - all the fear and sadness and betrayal, so much betrayal – and squeezed his eyes shut, desperately wishing that there was some way that would allow him to turn back time and undo the events of the past few weeks.

But no amount of futile wishes could erase the horrible reality of his actions. He had publically threatened to kill his mate, committing one of the gravest crimes a dwarf can do. In one fell swoop he had lost his honour, his claim on the throne of Erebor and Bilbo's trust. There was no way Bilbo would ever forgive him for this. There was no excuse for what he had done. None. 

It would be easy to blame the gold for his madness, but he knew better than that. The treasure may have started it, but the greed had been his alone. 

His gaze briefly flashed to the dagger on his belt, a stray thought crossing his mind, but he turned his eyes away a heartbeat later. No. That would be far too easy. Simple solutions like this were for cowards and Thorin Oakenshield was no coward. If he killed himself now, he would die in disgrace. His actions would bring shame to the entire line of Durin and he would never be allowed to enter Mahal's Halls, forever condemned to wander an eternal darkness. 

Besides, a quick death would be far too merciful a punishment for his crime. No - he would stand up and face the world and live the rest of his life with the knowledge of what he had done. 

Thorin got to his feet slowly, leaning against the wall for support when his legs threatened to give out. He was still exhausted from the sleepless night and his head felt like splitting in two, but his mind was finally clear. He should go and see how the others were faring. He was sure they would have some choice words prepared for him, words he more than deserved.

Thorin gave the gold pile behind him one last disgusted glance before he turned and left the hall. 

What was done was done. Now he would have to live with the consequences.

*****

Thorin lay on his back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Bilbo slept on the cot a few feet away, teetering between life and death. He had been like that for three days now – neither dead nor living, his breath slow and barely audible in the silence of the tent. Thorin sighed in frustration, turning his head to look at the hobbit. Óin had ordered him to bed a few hours ago, but Thorin wasn't in the mood for sleep.

How could he sleep when Bilbo was dying? What did it matter that Thorin wasn't healing properly? Any breath could be Bilbo's last. Why was he lying on the bed when he should be at Bilbo's side?

Óin had already left for the night and the rest of the dwarves rarely visited in the evenings, so he was on his own. Thorin sat up with great effort, ignoring the various aches that flared up at the movement, and lowered his legs to the floor, testing their steadiness. They held, so he stood up carefully and managed to cross the distance between his and Bilbo's bed, sinking to his knees at the hobbit's side. A few of his wounds twinged unpleasantly at the movement but he paid them no mind, his eyes glued to Bilbo's face.

The hobbit looked the same as ever, still and peaceful in his slumber, his skin burning hot like a furnace when Thorin ran his fingertips over Bilbo's cheek. He would give anything to see those eyes open again and look at him with affection. To see Bilbo awake again, happy and full of life. Thorin took one of Bilbo's hands in his own and brought it to his lips, bowing his head.

“Come back, Bilbo,” he whispered. “Please, come back to me.”

He had spent more time praying in those last three days than he had in his entire life. He had never been particularly religious before, but now he put his entire being into the prayer, pleading for Bilbo's life. The hobbit didn't deserve to die like this.

Even after all that had happened, all that Thorin had done, Bilbo had still come back to save his life. Everything after that had happened so fast that Thorin hadn't had the chance to thank him for it, or to apologise for his actions at the wall. 

_And now I may never get one_ , Thorin thought as he gazed on the hobbit's sleeping face. Bilbo had seemed open to reconciliation when he had come to the tent, giving Thorin hope that he might be able to atone for his actions after all. How ironic would it be if he lost Bilbo again, right after he had got him back?

“I am sorry,” he told the sleeping hobbit, pressing a soft kiss to his knuckles. “I am sorry for threatening you.” Bilbo didn't react in any way, but Thorin didn't mind, shifting a little closer to the bed. 

“I am sorry for attacking you. You were doing the right thing, but I was too blinded by madness to see the wisdom of your actions. I should have treated you better. I didn't give you enough credit when you deserved it, because I let my pride and old prejudices overrule my common sense...”

Thorin talked for what felt like hours, apologising for all the wrong he had ever done him, whispering shameful confessions into the falling darkness. There was no one around to hear him, no one to judge him for his weakness, so he could admit his faults aloud, if only to ease his own conscience. He was so wrapped up in his monologue that he almost missed it when the hobbit's fingers moved in his hold.

He raised his head just in time to see Bilbo's eyes blink open slowly and focus on him with some difficulty. 

“Thorin?” Bilbo's voice was quiet and raspy from disuse, but Thorin thought it was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard.

“Welcome back,” Thorin told him, squeezing gently the hand in his grip. He knew there were tears in his eyes but couldn't bring himself to care, too relieved to see the hobbit awake. 

He released Bilbo's hand when the hobbit weakly tugged on it and was preparing to pull back if Bilbo said that he didn't wish to see him, so the soft touch on his cheek took him by surprise. Bilbo's fingers brushed against his face in a light caress, tracing the line of his jaw. Thorin looked up in astonishment and found Bilbo watching him, his eyes tired but alert.

“Did you mean it?” Bilbo asked, studying Thorin's voice carefully. When he saw the dwarf's confusion, he continued: “I heard your words. I was already gone from this place, hovering in a strange dreamlike state somewhere on the edge of life when I heard your voice, calling me back.” He gave Thorin a look. “Did you mean what you said?”

Thorin nodded, his throat tight. It took him several attempts before he could speak.

“Every word.”

A soft smile spread over Bilbo's face. “I think the Valar heard your prayers.”

Before Thorin could say anything to that, Balin walked in.

“I'm so happy to see you awake,” he told Bilbo.

“It's good to be back,” the hobbit replied with a smile. Balin turned to Thorin.

“You should get back to your chair. The others will be here any moment.”

“Of course they will,” Thorin muttered, but there was no bite in it. He was fully aware that the Companions had been worried sick over Bilbo's fever, so he could hardly begrudge them for wanting to see him.

The visit was full of joy and laughter, everyone happy that Bilbo had woken up. Kíli almost smothered the hobbit in his excitement but Bilbo didn't mind, smiling at them all indulgently. They all did their best to talk Bilbo's ear off and would have probably stayed there all night if Bilbo hadn't started to yawn. Óin shooed them out when Bilbo's eyelids grew heavy and shot a look at Thorin before he left as well, probably to give them a little more privacy. 

Thorin raised himself from the armchair with some difficulty and sat down on the edge of the bed, drinking in the sight of Bilbo alive and well.

“I have many amends to make to you,” he told the hobbit. 

Bilbo raised his hand, pressing it against Thorin's cheek.

“You could start your atonement by giving me a kiss,” he said, a hint of playfulness in his tone. “The last one was very nice.”

“You have just woken up!” Thorin protested, but his eyes still flickered down to the hobbit's lips. It had been weeks since their little moment in the corridor, but it felt like years to Thorin. “You are still weak,” Thorin murmured, but was already leaning forward. 

Bilbo's smile widened. 

“A kiss won't kill me,” he whispered against Thorin's lips before he lifted his head and gave Thorin a soft peck. “And even if it did, it would be a most beautiful death.” 

He leaned forward for another kiss but Thorin pulled back, burying his face in Bilbo's shoulder.

“Please don't joke about that,” he said in a strained voice, squeezing his eyes shut. He took several deep breaths, trying to block the image from his mind. He felt a small hand touch the back of his head.

“I'm sorry,” Bilbo said quietly. “That was insensitive of me.”

“No,” Thorin said, pulling back. “You have nothing to apologise for.” He sat up slowly, turning his back towards the hobbit. “You should get some rest.”

When he looked at Bilbo again, the hobbit was asleep.

*****

The days in the healing tent passed much more pleasantly after that. Now that he no longer had to worry about Bilbo's life, Thorin spent a lot of his time asleep, healing from his own plentiful injuries. To Óin's great displeasure he had managed to aggravate some of his wounds during his vigil at Bilbo's bedside, so the old healer confined him to his bed, forbidding him to so much as sit up.

With nothing else to occupy them, Thorin and Bilbo talked. The conversations were a little awkward at first, neither of them knowing quite how to act, but as the hours passed they both relaxed and Thorin soon found himself sharing more stories from his youth, amusing Bilbo with anecdotes about his sister. 

They both carefully avoided the topic of the Arkenstone, their new-found peace still too fragile to venture into the heavier topics. Thorin was aware that they would have to discuss it eventually, but for now he was content to simply lie back, let the hobbit's voice wash over him and enjoy the fact that they were able to hold this conversation at all. 

The box with the Arkenstone still lay where Thranduil had put it several days ago but neither of them paid it much attention. Thorin realised with a surprise that he no longer felt drawn to the stone. While before the pull had been almost unbearable, making him unable to think of anything else, now he barely noticed that the stone was even there.

While his days were mostly peaceful, his nights were anything but. 

The gold fever might have disappeared, but his subconscious was more than eager to remind him of the days he had spent under its thrall. In his dreams he kept walking the marble corridors of Erebor, looking for something he couldn't find. Sometimes there was gold pouring on him in waves from all sides and when he tried to escape, it buried him alive. Other times he walked out of the mountain with a crown on his head only to find that the entire company had died in a battle, their lifeless bodies lying at the gate like a mockery. 

In one such dream he was running across the battlefield towards a hill where Bilbo stood facing Azog. Thorin ran as fast as he could, but it felt like he was running through mud, all his limbs too heavy and uncooperative. Before Thorin could help him or even shout a warning, the orc swept his arm forward and ran the hobbit through.

Thorin woke up drenched in sweat, panting harshly, the last vestiges of dream still clinging to him, the image of Bilbo lying dead burned into his eyelids. He vaguely realized that there were someone's hands on him and a voice calling his name.

“Thorin! Thorin!”

It took him almost a minute to tear through the haze of confusion and return to reality. When he did, he saw Bilbo sitting on the edge of his bed, his hands grasping Thorin's shoulder, eyes wide in alarm. There wasn't much light in the tent, only the bare whisper of light from the torches, but he could still see that the hobbit looked concerned.

“Thorin,” Bilbo whispered urgently. “Wake up. It's all right, everything's fine.”

“You were dead,” Thorin muttered, barely aware that he was even speaking. “You were dead and there was nothing I could do-” He was stopped mid-sentence by gentle hands that cupped his head on both sides, forcing him to look up.

“I'm here,” Bilbo said firmly, gazing into his eyes. “I'm alive. It's all right.” He only had to pull a little to make Thorin slump forward and bury his face in the hobbit's shoulder. Bilbo's arms went around him, the solid weight of them comforting. “I'm here,” Bilbo repeated once more.

“I saw you die,” Thorin muttered, not caring that his voice broke at the last word. “I saw you-”

“Shhhh.” Bilbo said gently, running his hands over Thorin's hair. “It was just a dream. I'm all right.”

Thorin wrapped his own arms around Bilbo's waist, pressing himself closer to the warmth that the hobbit offered. Bilbo's hands kept carding through his hair, calming him down. Thorin felt his breathing gradually slow down, the last remnants of the nightmare floating away. The shirt under his face felt wet when he brushed his cheek over it and he belatedly realized that he had been crying. 

He was all prepared to apologise for it, feeling embarrassed by his outburst, but Bilbo's face held no judgement when he pulled back – only quiet support and understanding. Instead of saying anything, Thorin simply leaned forward and touched his forehead to Bilbo's, closing his eyes. 

They stayed like that for a moment before they got interrupted by Bilbo's yawn. The hobbit pulled back a little, giving Thorin an apologetic smile. 

“I should go back to my bed before I fall asleep here.” 

He moved away, intending to slide down from the bed, but Thorin laid a hand on his shoulder.

“You could stay here, if you wish.” He could hardly believe his boldness in asking that, but Bilbo didn't seem scandalised. The hobbit gave Thorin a searching look before he sat back down with a small smile.

“I think I would like that. Move aside a bit.” 

After a bit of jostling they managed to find a comfortable position, with Bilbo tucked into Thorin's side, his head pillowed on the dwarf's shoulder. He laid his free hand on Thorin's chest, murmured a “goodnight” and was soon out like a light. Thorin lay awake for a moment longer, running his hand over Bilbo's curls and marvelling at the closeness. Finally he wrapped an arm around Bilbo's shoulders and fell asleep as well, enjoying a blissfully dreamless night.

That was the first night they slept in the same bed but it certainly wasn't the last.

*****

“You should be attending the negotiations,” Balin told him with a disapproving frown a few days later. Bilbo was gone from the tent, eating a dinner with Bard and Thranduil, so the two of them could talk in private. “They have already started talking about dividing the treasure, but they still need you to give them your permission.”

“No, they don't,” Thorin said, turning away from him. “Fíli is there in my place and he is more than capable of handling the talks.”

“That's not what I meant and you know it,” Balin said. “How long are you going to keep punishing yourself for something that wasn't your fault?”

“How many times do we have to talk about this?” Thorin muttered.

“Until you come to your senses,” Balin was starting to sound annoyed. “Thorin you can't give up now. Not after everything you have done to reclaim the mountain.”

“What's going on?” a new voice asked from the doorway. Bilbo walked into the tent, his eyes flickering between Thorin and Balin. 

“Thorin is being unreasonable,” Balin said before Thorin could answer. Thorin shot him a glare, but the old dwarf ignored him. Bilbo just sighed.

“Is he?”

“He refuses to accept the position that rightfully belongs to him.”

“Don't talk about me like I'm not here,” Thorin ground out. Balin gave him a long-suffering look. 

“Either you explain this to him yourself or I will,” he warned Thorin. “He has a right to know.”

“Right to know what?” Bilbo asked, puzzled. Thorin sighed.

“Very well, I will tell him. Leave us,” he told Balin. “This is a matter better discussed in private.”

Balin gave him a nod and walked out, closing the flap behind him. Thorin walked to his bed and pulled the pouch with his severed braid from under the pillow.

“Our bonds are sacred to dwarfs,” Thorin began slowly, keeping his back to Bilbo. “When I raised my hand against you on the wall, I committed a grave crime. I should have protected you and cherished you, but instead I almost killed you.” He waited for the tightness in his throat to pass before he continued. “In doing so, I lost my honour and my right to wear my braids.” He turned back to Bilbo, unwrapping the fabric to show him the strand of hair. “Kíli has already explained to you what our braids mean, hasn't he?” 

Bilbo nodded, but still looked confused.

“I still don't understand why it's a problem. Why don't you simply make a new braid?”

Thorin turned his head to the side, staring at the floor. “It's not so simple.”

“Then explain it to me,” Bilbo implored, taking a step closer. “Make me understand.”

Thorin looked back at him, trying to find the right words to explain the problem. Bilbo stood before him, waiting patiently. As he gazed at the hobbit, Thorin suddenly thought that Bilbo looked older somehow, much older than he used to, even though his face was still the same. It was the eyes, he decided finally, Bilbo's eyes had something old in them – much like Gandalf, he had the look of someone who had watched centuries pass by. The hobbit hadn't looked like that before he had entered Erebor, so it must have been the dragon's doing. 

It gave him hope that maybe Bilbo would be able to understand after all.

“I cannot be a king without my braids,” he told the hobbit.

“So how do you get them back?” Bilbo asked. Before Thorin could answer, his eyes lit up with something like understanding. “I have to be the one to give them to you, don't I?”

Thorin nodded but made no move to hand the braid to Bilbo. The hobbit took a step closer.

“Thorin what is the real problem here? You must know that I have forgiven you already.”

Thorin closed his eyes with a sigh, taking several deep breaths, but he opened them again when he felt a palm press against his chest. He looked down into Bilbo's eyes and saw nothing but compassion and understanding. 

“I don't think I can be a king,” he confessed finally. “Not after everything that happened.”

“You're already a king,” Bilbo said softly. “Your people look up to you.”

“But how do I know that the madness won't come back?” Thorin said. “How can I be a king of an entire nation when I don't have control over my own mind? What if the fever returns and I hurt you again? What I did to you was unforgivable.” 

He made to turn away but the hands on his shoulders were firm, keeping in him in place with surprising strength.

“Look at me,” Bilbo said and waited until Thorin met his gaze. “I don't blame you for what happened. You weren't yourself when you did it.” When Thorin opened his mouth to protest, Bilbo silenced him with a look. “Yes, I will be the first one to admit that what you did was horrible, but you cannot lay the entire blame on yourself. The gold-fever had taken over your mind, stripping you of your control. Besides,” he grimaced, “I provoked you. Some of the things I said to you had been harsh.”

“I needed to hear them,” Thorin said.

“Yes, you probably did,” Bilbo nodded, “but that doesn't change the fact that my delivery was less than tactful.” He sighed when he saw Thorin's unhappy expression. “If it helps, I wasn't quite myself when it happened, either, so I am hardly one to throw stones.” 

“I threatened you-” Thorin began, intent on making Bilbo understand, but the hobbit cut him off.

“And I stole the most valuable pieces of the entire treasure when I left Erebor,” Bilbo said. He took a step back and reached for his bag, putting it on the bed. Thorin watched in amazement as Bilbo pulled out a number of precious gems and exquisite pieces of artistry. Bilbo threw him a look. “I had no idea that I had even done it until I woke up several days later and discovered half of Erebor's treasury in my backpack. Are you going to blame me for this?”

“Of course not,” Thorin said quickly. “You didn't know what you were doing.”

“And you did?” Bilbo gave him a sharp look. Thorin was all prepared to protest, but the look in Bilbo's eyes stopped him. “You should stop blaming yourself for something that wasn't your fault, Thorin,” Bilbo said gently. 

Thorin hesitated for another moment before he nodded, giving in. He sank to his knees in front of the hobbit and lifted the braid with both hands as an offering. Bilbo took the braid, running his thumb over the bead.

“What do I do with this?”

“You remove the bead and make me a new braid with it.”

Bilbo laid the braid on the bed and untangled the hair from the bead carefully before he walked back to Thorin. Taking Thorin's head between his hands, he bent forward and gave the kneeling dwarf a soft kiss on the forehead. 

“I forgive you,” he said, brushing a thumb over Thorin's temple. He held eye contact to make sure Thorin knew that he truly meant ever word. “Now you only have to forgive yourself.”

Thorin closed his eyes when he felt the hobbit's fingers slide through his hair. Bilbo was careful, his touch light as he chose the strands right next to the place where Thorin's old braid used to be. His fingers were skilled and nimble, so it only took him a few minutes to weave the bead into a new braid. Thorin waited for him to finish his work before he reached up and wrapped his arms around the hobbit's middle, burying his face into the soft hollow under Bilbo's breastbone.

“Thank you,” he whispered into the fabric of Bilbo's shirt. Bilbo just ran his hands over Thorin's hair, his touch like a silent blessing. They stayed that way for a few minutes before Thorin straightened, feeling as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He leaned down and gave Bilbo a kiss that the hobbit happily returned. “Thank you.”

“Will you join us for the talks tomorrow?” Bilbo asked some time later, when they finally managed to separate for air. 

“I will,” Thorin promised. He ran his fingertips down the side of Bilbo's throat and felt a thrill of delight when the hobbit shivered under his touch. 

“Fíli will be so relieved to hear it,” Bilbo said, his fingers tightening on Thorin's shoulder when Thorin's lips found a soft spot beneath Bilbo's ear. “He hates the negotiations.”

“I do not look forward to it, either, but it has to be done.”

Bilbo pulled back a little to see Thorin's face. “You will accept the crown, then?”

Thorin nodded. Bilbo gave him a radiant smile.

“I think you're going to be a good king,” he said with conviction.

“I will do my best.”

*****

Bilbo was leaving.

The words kept echoing in his mind as he gazed at the hobbit, who was standing by the wooden table, looking unhappy. Thorin barely paid attention to the other dwarves as they left, his focus turned to Bilbo. He didn't even bother to check if they were in the room alone, just crossed the distance and pulled the hobbit into a kiss.

Bilbo responded at once by burying his hands in Thorin's hair and pulling him closer, until they were pressed together from head to toe. Thorin closed his eyes and poured all his desperation into the kiss, tangling them so close together that they could barely breathe. He pulled back a moment later, panting harshly, and leaned his forehead against Bilbo's to gather his thoughts a little.

“You're leaving,” he breathed against Bilbo's lips.

“I have to,” Bilbo replied, looking unhappy. He raised his hand and laid on on the side of Thorin's neck, his thumb making small circles over the hollow under Thorin's ear. “I need to do this for myself, Thorin. If I want to be happy here, I need to find some peace first.” 

“How bad is it?” Thorin asked, trying to understand. Bilbo sighed.

“I still dream of gold at night. I spend hours revisiting the hoard and counting treasure, and sometimes when they discuss the reparations I have to bite my tongue because I want to yell at them that all that gold is mine and they have no right to take it.”

“Why did you never tell me?” Thorin asked softly, trying not to feel hurt. Bilbo ran a gentle palm over his cheek, his fingertips brushing the wrinkles at the corners of Thorin's eyes.

“Because you have plenty of your own nightmares already. I didn't want to add to them.”

“I still would have liked to know,” Thorin said with a frown.

“I know.” Bilbo gave him a kiss. “I'm sorry.”

“While I'm not happy to see you go, I can hardly hold it against you,” Thorin said finally, though it cost him a lot of effort. 

“Thank you,” Bilbo said with a small smile. “We still have a few days, you know. We should make the most out of them.”

As he looked at the hobbit in his arms, an idea suddenly occurred to Thorin - a mad and highly scandalous idea. He knew that Bilbo probably hadn't meant his remark like that, but now that he had thought about it, the possibility proved impossible to resist.

“Come with me,” he told Bilbo. 

A small frown appeared on the hobbit's face.

“Come where? What are we going to do?”

Thorin looked him straight into the eye, letting all his desire and frustration suffuse his gaze.

 _“Anything he want,”_ he said and let the implication hang in the air. It took only a second for Bilbo to catch on, his eyes growing wide before a small smile appeared on his face.

“I think I would like that,” he said and leaned up to kiss Thorin again. They pulled apart a moment later when a distant sound from the corridor reminded them that they were in a public hall.

“Not here,” Thorin said and started walking. Bilbo fell into step with him, a small blush on his face as they passed several dwarves on the way. 

“Isn't this whole idea a bit inappropriate?” he gave Thorin a side glance as they climbed the stairs. 

Thorin smirked. “It is extremely inappropriate, but I find that I do not care.” 

Bilbo returned the grin. “That's good to know.”

It didn't take them long to reach the royal quarters. Dáin's dwarves had done their best to clear out the dust and make them habitable before the coronation, so they only needed to shoo out one confused servant to have the rooms to themselves. The dwarf took one look at them and left without a single word, closing the door behind him. The gossip about them would be all over Erebor by tomorrow morning, but Thorin couldn't bring himself to care.

He pulled Bilbo close and kissed him, the world of possibilities opening up in his mind. For once in his life he forgot all about duty and obligations and let himself do something purely for the pleasure of it. They hadn't been able to do much in the tent, since the walls made of fabric didn't offer much privacy and anyone could walk in at any time, but now, with the door locked and no one to disturb them, Thorin was finally able to do everything he had been dreaming about for months.

He spent hours worshipping Bilbo's body, learning all the places that made him gasp and moan, memorising every inch of skin. Everything that he couldn't say with words, he said with his hands and lips, willing the hobbit to understand. Bilbo was far from shy and responded with enthusiasm, exploring without a trace of shame. Afternoon passed and evening came and they barely noticed, too wrapped up in each other to pay attention to anything else.

It was already dark when they stopped, too worn out to do more than kiss and cuddle. They ended up tangled together in the middle of the sheets, the glowing embers in the fireplace giving off just enough heat to prevent them from feeling cold. Bilbo ended up lying half on top of Thorin, his curls just brushing against the dwarf's beard. Thorin had his arms wrapped around Bilbo's back, running the fingertips of one hand up and down the hobbit's spine.

“Promise me you will come back,” Thorin murmured into Bilbo's hair. Bilbo pressed a kiss over Thorin's heart before he raised his head, giving the dwarf a smile.

“I will come back, Thorin, I promise. I'll be back before you know it.”

Thorin watched him for a moment longer before he sat up, making a decision. Bilbo sat us as well and watched in confusion as Thorin reached into his hair and started unbrading one of his braids.

“I should have done this weeks ago, but I never found the right time for it,” Thorin said as he untangled a bead from one of his braids. He offered the bead to Bilbo, keeping his gaze open. “Will you do me the honour of accepting this?”

“What is it?” Bilbo's gaze flickered between the bead and Thorin's face.

“A courting bead. It marks the start of a courtship that will eventually lead to marriage. Balin can explain all about it if you ask him.”

“Haven't we been courting for a while already?” Bilbo cocked his head to the side, a hint of amusement playing around his lips.

“We have,” Thorin admitted. “This just makes it official.” 

Bilbo gave him another look before he reached for the bead, cradling it in his hand.

“Yes,” he told Thorin with a smile, “I accept.” 

Thorin let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding and smiled back, feeling relieved beyond words. Bilbo's smile widened at Thorin's reaction and leaned forward for a kiss that Thorin was more than happy to return. Before things could get steamy again, Bilbo pulled back, raising the bead up to see it better in the faint light from the fireplace.

“What am I supposed to do with this?”

“I will braid it into your hair,” Thorin told him and took the bead back from him. 

It was no wonder Kíli had loved combing Bilbo's hair so much, Thorin thought as he weaved the bead into Bilbo's hair. It was so soft and smooth to the touch. He spent a good while running his hands through the curls, marvelling at the texture that was so unlike his own. Bilbo held patiently, his eyes half-closed in pleasure at the contact. He straightened up when Thorin finished braiding his hair, a small frown on his face.

“Shouldn't I be doing something for you, too? How do these things normally work?”

Thorin ran his fingers through the hair on Bilbo's nape, unable to stop himself from touching.

“If you were a dwarf, you would simply give me one of your own beads in return, but since you do not wear any, we will have to think of an alternative solution.” 

He had expected a number of reactions to his statement, but certainly not laughter. The hobbit's eyes suddenly widened as if he had remembered something and he started giggling, torn between embarrassment and hilarity. Thorin just looked on in confusion. 

“What is so amusing about courting beads?” he asked the hobbit. Bilbo laughed for a moment longer before he finally managed to calm down enough to be able to speak.

“You know,” Bilbo gave Thorin a look, his eyes dancing with mirth, “I think I have one in my backpack.”

*****

A year and a half had never felt so long.

The first winter was bad – the cavernous halls of the dwarven city offered little refuge from the cold and there was barely enough food to go around, but they managed to survive it, somehow. The Lake-men went to work planting fields in spring, so there was hope that my mid-summer they might finally have enough food for everyone. 

Beorn's people sent them honey and flour and even the wood-elves contributed some of their supplies, to the never-ending astonishment of the dwarves. The biggest surprise, however, came in May. A small caravan appeared on the western horizon and when it came nearer, they saw that it was headed by elves – a dozen elves from Rivendell rode on tall horses, leading several carts of goods between them. 

“What is all this?” Thorin asked in astonishment. He had just finished visiting Dale with Fíli when he heard the news of the caravan and so he had come forth with Bard to wait for them. 

A tall blond elf dismounted from his horse and came forward, giving the two kings a small bow.

“Lord Elrond sends his greetings to both Dale and Erebor and wishes you many years of peace and prosperity.”

“How did you know what we needed?” Bard asked. The elf smiled.

“Bilbo Elf-Friend stopped in Rivendell on his way home and presented your case in a most compelling fashion. Lord Elrond decided to grant his wish.” He gave Thorin a look. “We have never had particularly good relations with the dwarves, but we hold the hobbit in high esteem.” 

“He's an Elf-Friend?” Fíli asked, incredulous. He had heard enough tales from Bilbo to know how rarely bestowed that title was. “What on earth did he do to earn that title?” 

The blond elf shrugged.

“It was King Thranduil who named him one. We only recognised that fact.”

Thorin remembered Bilbo's magical backpack and Thranduil's dreamy look when he had left Erebor and only had to smile. 

The elves stayed for two days, watching the rebuilding and dealing out advice before they departed again, heading back to Rivendell. Most of the orcs of the North had perished in the Battle of Five armies, so the roads in the Eastern Wilderness had once again become safe for travellers after more than a century and the trade in the north could resume once more.

The restoration progressed slowly, but more dwarfs kept arriving every day to help with the efforts. The mountain was soon bustling with life once more, the workers and craftsmen hurrying back and forth. Thorin had his hands full, going wherever he was needed and directing the work. His days were long and exhausting and he rarely got a moment to himself, but it felt incredibly rewarding to see Erebor slowly come back to life. 

Still, even though he was always surrounded by people, Thorin couldn't help but feel a little lonely. Without Bilbo there, his bed suddenly too big and his quarters too quiet. He got into the habit of fingering the bead on his right braid, using the solidity of the precious metal to remind himself that it hadn't all been a dream and that he really had mate who would come back to him if he waited long enough. 

Summer passed and another winter and still they heard no news from the Blue Mountains. July had already began when the ravens finally reported a dwarvish caravan approaching from the north and it was all Thorin could do to prevent himself from taking a horse and riding out to meet them. They arrived a week later and as he walked to meet them at the gate Thorin had to remind himself that it was undignified for a king to run.

He didn't see Bilbo at first, only a gaggle of dwarves, ponies and baggage, but as he came closer, he spotted a familiar curly-haired figure standing next to his sister. It seemed that Bilbo was helping organise the caravan, giving the dwarves directions on how to split the baggage. Thorin stopped a few feet away and just watched him for a minute, drinking in the sight. 

Bilbo still looked the same as when he had left, only his hair was longer, much longer. It reached down to his shoulder blades, falling over his shoulders in a gentle cascade of curls. Kíli's clasp was still in his hair and Thorin was pleased to see that he was wearing both of his beads, his two braids identical to the ones that Thorin himself wore.

Before Thorin could call to him, Dís noticed Thorin's presence and came forth to hug him, with Kíli trailing after her. Thorin greeted them both but his eyes still kept straying to Bilbo, who had finally finished his business with the dwarves and was now walking towards him as fast as he could. Thorin turned away from Kíli and caught him in his arms, burying his face in Bilbo's hair. The hobbit wrapped his arms tight around Thorin's neck and held on, giving a small laugh of sheer joy.

They finally pulled apart when Dís delicately cleared her throat behind them, but Thorin didn't pay her much attention, his eyes fixed on Bilbo, who was alive and well and finally back in his arms. Thorin would have kissed him right there and then but Dís coughed again, so he had to content himself with the embrace. 

He had spent months preparing his speech to welcome Bilbo back but when he finally opened his mouth, the first thing that came out was: “You didn't cut your hair.”

From the corner of his eye he could see Dís smirking at him, probably already planning all the ways she was going to make fun of him for his lack of eloquence, but he couldn't bring himself to care because Bilbo was smiling.

“I have grown quite fond of it,” he said, tugging at his braid. 

Thorin hugged him again, running his hand over the mane of hair as he held him close.

“You came back,” he breathed against Bilbo's ear. He felt the hobbit's smile against his cheek.

“Of course I did,” Bilbo replied and pulled back a little, his gaze flickering toward the mountain before he looked back at Thorin. “It's good to be home.”

“Welcome back,” Thorin said with a smile. His eyes flickered to his sister and nephews, who were all hiding grins, before he made his decision. He could see them later, but if he didn't kiss Bilbo in the next five minutes, he was going to explode. He stepped back from the hobbit to maintain an illusion of propriety, but from the whispers around him, it probably didn't help much. He was aware that he was staring at the hobbit like a starving man at a feast, but found himself unable to school his expression into something more suitable for a public place.

“I should give you a tour of the mountain,” he said, his voice a little rough around the edges and was gratified to see those eyes darken with desire. Bilbo licked his lips, swallowing once before he found his voice.

“I think that's a wonderful idea.” He grabbed Thorin's hand. “If you'll excuse us,” he nodded to Dís and started up the stairs, Thorin hot on his heels. 

“Tour of his bedroom, more like,” he heard Kíli mutter behind him, but decided to ignore it. He had more important matters to attend to.

The walk to his quarters had never been so long. They walked fast, carefully not looking at each other, but it took of Thorin's self control not to grab him and kiss him right in the middle of the entrance hall. He would feel foolish for being so eager, if he didn't see the same hunger mirrored in Bilbo's eyes. When the door to Thorin's quarters finally came into sight, he could have wept with joy. The door barely clicked shut behind them when they reached for each other, their lips meeting in a passionate kiss. 

Thorin pulled him closer and deepened the kiss, finally quenching the hunger that had been gnawing at his insides for more than a year. Something deep inside him slotted into place, filling his entire being with a feeling of overwhelming rightness and he sighed in contentment, marvelling at the fact that he would be able to spend the rest of his life enjoying this.

Later, much later, when they were both pleasantly tired and Bilbo lay on his chest, panting softly in the aftermath of their activities, Thorin finally decided to ask the question that had been plaguing him since the start of their journey.

“There is one thing that I never found out,” he said, running his palm up and down Bilbo's back in slow, leisurely strokes. 

“Hm?” Bilbo murmured sleepily. 

“Why did you join us on the quest?” Thorin asked. “You had no reason to help us and you seemed greatly reluctant to associate with us in any way. Why did you come with us?” 

Bilbo raised his head and propped his chin on Thorin's chest. 

“I hope you're not expecting some grand and noble reason, because there isn't one.” At Thorin's questioning gaze he continued. “I was bored. Horribly, incredibly bored, and I wanted to have an adventure.” He sighed. “I had spent all my youth dreaming about daring deeds and faraway lands, but when the opportunity came, I was far too settled in my ways to take it.”

He crossed his forearms under his chin, moving his head to see Thorin better. “You know, I was all prepared to turn you down and send you away empty handed when you first presented me with the offer.”

“What made you change your mind?” Thorin gave the hobbit a curious look. 

“I heard you sing.” Bilbo smiled, his eyes going a little dreamy at the memory. “Your voice was the most beautiful thing I have ever heard and it proved impossible to resist the invitation when it was presented in such a manner.” He gave Thorin a playful look. “I wonder that so few dwarves were willing to go with you. You could overthrow kingdoms with that voice.”

Thorin chuckled. “I am afraid that it doesn’t work like that.”

“That’s too bad.” Bilbo said, running a languid hand over the planes of Thorin's chest. “You would be the king of the world.”

“Being the King of Erebor is more than enough for me to handle, thank you very much.” He pressed a palm against Bilbo's cheek, running his thumb over the cheekbone. “I'm glad that you decided to come with us.”

Bilbo gave him a smile.

“So am I, Thorin. So am I.”

_The End_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is finally finished! Thank you so much to everyone who has read and liked this story! Your continuing support made my work on this story so much more enjoyable and I appreciated every bit of feedback that I got. 
> 
> The writing process for this story was an incredibly rewarding experience and a huge learning opportunity (so many different POVs!), but very exhausting and time consuming as well and I need to take some time off after this. I may post a few shorter stories if the inspiration hits, but please don't expect me to write anything of this scope for a while.
> 
> I'm planning to write a sequel to this story eventually, because Thranduil at Thorin's wedding is not a thing to be missed, but for now I'm taking a few months off to finally start working on my Masters Thesis. 
> 
> Thank you again for reading, working on this has been an honour.


End file.
